And, once again I've learned that you too, essentially, walk following a restless shadow. Seeing the icy door of that little wooden house left open, it seemed it would be empty by now. Come, let us rent the house. From then on, whenever I felt afraid I would shrivel up. The jolt that mist would give, and the glittering sounds of twilight wind would scream regularly in my ears.
In that room I had hung a portrait of a man who had to wait until death to understand himself. I kept a lamp burning beneath the picture, whose flame never went out nor ever touched my sins. ...In that gentle light I would sit quietly on the doorframe and count—how many days left!
When I opened my eyes, everyone had gone, I lay alone on the floor. I'm always running late! My loneliness stretches from shore to the ocean's end. Sitting by the window or banging my head against the wall until it bleeds, however I cry, no one ever hears the sound of my weeping.
I breathe deeply some purity not of lips, but of understanding. When heavy rains fall and streets are drowned, even then, even when sunlight comes and sets the city ablaze, I have never learned religion from reading any book or from any religious saint. Essentially, religion cannot be known from anyone outside, without walking the path of endless conversation with oneself. Instead of burning the sacrificial fire-sticks, if we knew how to burn the heart, seeing God would be easier!
Behind the gentle forest ahead I can probably see a small hut, where if I wish I can build an altar of white wood. Because God loves me, on both sides of my cheeks more beauty and sorrow accumulate each day, and in the company of sharp music they often reach the rainbow. I saw slanting shadows of light crashing down on the ice. I felt like saying, don't break the return path of one whose forehead is already burned.
Here I will join an incredible pilgrimage through the mist. Don't be afraid—if I die in the desert staying close to my beloved, I will have no objection. Having come so far I still chase the unreal; therefore, the sound of whistles, the calls of circling vultures, the flash of rain, they all seek me out. Staying with them and kneeling before the altar doesn't quite suit me.
Sometimes a mysterious hand comes and from the camera's last snapshot takes rhythmic clusters of buds and a discarded useless bundle of conscience's stakes, very cautiously, in the path where air moves through excavated caverns, hoping for the purification of stunned souls, and places them there. Then the dead princess lies on a white bed of lotus flowers, and her hair waves in the spring breeze.
Perhaps truly, sorrow is finer than a single hair of the princess—when will we understand? When dew burns in sunlight, it becomes a rainbow—when will it burn?
From the old babla tree in front of our house to the polar star, from there to the moon, I have seen this net of sighs spread out. Ignoring the silver dew of dawn, walking midway through that net I have witnessed the spider's gray mockery and understood that I am prepared for the feast of wayward creatures.
The sun blazes on my room's wall, my heart races toward the shore of a faithful river, from tomorrow perfumed couriers will come, so spring's melodies will break one by one, drunken death will come and whistle loudly, waves will endlessly sway, creating turbulence around the hesitant island, strangely, dust sheets will burn in wind's fire, swift buds like shotgun pellets will burst on branches, disguised people with clouded eyes will rush toward me...
Just then, as I was about to be overwhelmed by sucking mist's lips, I saw that keeping me invisible, He sits peacefully on His outstretched, unyielding right arm, and waits to fall asleep in the eternal nest of a bird devoted to silence and solitude.