You had bought the ticket, hadn't you?

 
Cool October evening.
Gray lake. A magnificent ghost town.
In this city, almost every soul lives as an exile.
A terrible spider, hunting for prey.
Autumn leaves in the wind. Fleeing, moving.
The windows of distant castles are lit.


Autumn winds blow,
We are of gentle temperament and spirit, somewhat mad too.
From next month we'll begin to feel great fear.
Then our faces will turn pale, heavy curtains will fall over our eyes.
On the shelves of our small rooms, instead of flowers and fruit
we'll place storybooks. In our next generation I see no
lack of nourishment, but find no trace of stories. We kiss each other
tenderly and pull winter blankets over our faces, dreaming
summer dreams as we sleep. Then, seeing the pile of fire
before the mouth of our cave, the blazing star of the sky
descended into the leaves floating on the pond's water.


Neither the failure of expectations nor the key of useless prayers—nothing ruminated.
Come, let us spread mats on the ice and sit among the dwarfs
beneath the great polar tree, wrap ourselves in our own silence,
keep our eyes half-blind. And as soon as the stars begin to sparkle,
come, let us think of the future—how and how much should we speak?
Speech is religion!


The prehistory of holy scripture repeats itself under that scripture's direct priesthood.
Their messenger had no wisdom or experience, only some
messages. Those who spread filthy hatred and delusion, wishing
for the dismissal of all good sense—in their communal wailing
I, along with many others, wander lost, seeking a home
or shelter, and somehow trying to stay alive.
I'll stop, numb, by the door and listen for a long time
to the story of how three doves build their nest.


When I walk forward, leaving various thresholds behind,
I remember how one monsoon evening life learned humility.
People's quiet nature didn't discourage me,
no commotion or trouble touched me.
I waited, deaf for an hour,
and during the night's underground root growth or seed germination
I remembered not God, poet, or scientist, but rather
the middle-aged biology teacher from school.


If he had been born in another country, even today, despite the crime of speaking truth,
he would still be alive. Living mute and deaf brings swift ascension to heaven,
then one can dress however one likes, do what people call living well.


Those who reach the pinnacle of intellect with vocal pride—
keeping them at a distance is the custom here.
The teacher wasn't born an ant to live
in the disguise of insignificance, and besides,
he lives on, spreading light! Therefore,
they'll rob him and if necessary murder him
in broad daylight. This is how cultivable land here
survives as cremation grounds. The murderers themselves
are first to shoulder certain sacred duties
after his death. They must curse the dead teacher's soul
and continuously spread abundant obscene slander.
If they can make him appear drunk or worthless,
excellent work is done. God witnesses all this
and says, both my language and gestures
are incomprehensible. Wait until favorable times come.
In this game staged jointly by sinners and God,
if you participate as spectator, the heavenly
ant will ask: Did you buy a ticket?