The wanderer of mysteries carries on his shoulders tales of a girl too young for her mistakes, and also the wild joy of a man who knows himself.
Life, it seems, needs such coexistences.
Now I want to sit, touching your shadow, I want to sit a while. I am a shadow-beggar, you see... so unruly!
I want to write our formless stories too, what shall I name them?
Two people of different forms; a field of reeds or a whimsical afternoon, a pair of silver moons— I have nothing at all!
At midnight something stirred in me, I thought, let me go for a moment, see if the torenias have bloomed in the rooftop garden... two lips stained with color!
Now then I'll go to the moonlight market, sell compound honey and buy up all the sorrows.
Stepping onto the path I break through mist, under trees I hear the songs of livelihood. I think, yes, this is life— hanging by fingertips... How melancholy... how melancholy!
So many failures, yet still I want to gather brown evenings in my fist and call myself a lover!
How much can love of one's own kind redden the world— I won't enter that philosophy, that's for the pure ones— how can the chaotic life of a mistaken man bear such trouble, tell me!
You say I'm a pessimist! I agree. Walking through one lifetime I understand that wholehearted love is not for me!
Yes, what was I saying... the torenias in the rooftop garden... two lips stained with color.
I remembered that very day my face in the hollow of your throat, a chalice of joy upon your breast!