Oh life, I have been inactively defeated for a long period of time,
for a long leisure; long ago a secret late autumn came and left me
a shower of gloom; I have not yet been able to dissipate the
extinct time of fog, in the defeated disasters of seasons.
The moist sunlight of late hours made the time impressive; I also was
in a close contact as if a white butterfly;
had rejoiced a lot in spring, but got tired again and again
under pressure of the self.
The animistic shadow was greater than all other pangs;
the mysterious gratified shadow of the Orion was longer
than the whole day. Those who have been assimilated in human crowds
already have, in their lives, the fettered identification of latitude.
I have been driven by the besotted charms, have I also been boozed
very soon in the ever rotating thought-current; I have ever created
the solar-vain out of booze and floating perspectives tirelessly.
A monomaniac, I have seen the wizardry of dreams
in the enlightened darkness; out of all scenes, I have been in the labyrinths
of inner realm in the fundamental meaninglessness exposed by
undercurrent of desires. Mental distress and dissatisfaction were predetermined;
I have taken life for death, death for life; I have been impressed with
the aesthetic disappointment in the midst of purified joy; yet tiredness
has appeared hand in hand with disappointment. Nothing to be set as pretext,
only feelings coming from a far away place like varieties. Desolation,
being summoned, responded and, like Buddha, the expansion
of our nerves, under the shadows of memories.
This undiagnosed disease summons ultimate condition without reasons;
I have gone on drawing still life in an eccentric disheveled mood
when life and perspective have conversed; I have come to know
soul dies before body does; life was defeated long ago
at the advent of materials prostrated to the inanimate, and body
disappeared in the course of time;
gesticulation has come from the far away blue where in real sense
the sky has broken in smithereens and all the lines of the silent heart
have come to the brain and intellect. In a deep boozed vortex of
state, I have groped for the silence of the shards of the broken sky-
the anthropology of the blue lying in shards without any age-span
or physical appearance.
Who does not want self-invisibility? Visibility has its own geometry,
all day long. I have turned this sense of body into the floating
weight of tiredness; I have said to my consciousness-
get expanded behind the unused scenes; in the deep depth of skull
there appear abstruse signals; going to discover the meaning,
I have been prohibited; the speaking world is unable to make out;
it can only conceive surrealism- the self-expansion of silence.
Thus the lessons on origin from the metaphysical world
have been taken a lot; lots of pangs prevailed, and there prevailed
unknown zones; absence of wisdom was confined
to the fetter of sense whose numerical unities
have been disintegrated by gravitation; so I move on to and fro
having symbolist senselessness; having the process of thought
as an axiom, I have sensed the exhaustion of the whole.
Not illusion of truth, only splendor has made me hypnotized.
Life was of no use, death was also the same; this body-span
has been covered with these two outer weeds.
I take leave in this way; the reflection sealed in the mirror
does not let out sighs; Narcissus gave this color- the pseudo reality
of this sense. I can sense the stench of the darkness that is going on
burning with the fire of a lamp as I will be disentangled
from the visible reality- having company of Haiku at the hara-kiri night
as I am out of any appearance in a sudden difference-
I have seen regularly that the unreal shadow of continuous moments,
in the shadow of memories and evening
has gone away