If you feel soaked in gloom, come here, by the side of this
silent river, you’ll feel the sleeps once killed stir in your
blood, and you’ll be able to hear the cryptic voices of the
The river too stores the images of the sea, eager contexts
and invisible psychology.
We are actually itinerant birds fetching winter season and
the songs of invisible realms. When our skin becomes full,
death summons us. We go back, but do not prepare the
sights into order. So, we become message stricken again and
again along the obscure front lines of the conflicting sources
that is now rotating on.
If you feel stricken with pangs, come back to this river free
from side effects; it will tell you secretly of the sea that will
turn psychologically rife even without its visible presence.
Make your deeds stable. Wedge the fallen feathers inside
the beach sand so that a sea-festival may be declared.
Memories glide on air. Now life has gone out of any
solution. All the masts have been raised.
Let the dawns cross away the sand depots stealthily.
Examine the blue eggs of tortoises; they have lost their own
mode of speaking. Let the craftiness of silence gleam in
summer. The tomb stone glitters in the afternoon of birth.
The sea of the secret realms has not stored the echoes, neither
has it controlled the mysteries of dreams properly.
The tinge of the tender sky seemingly glitters across the border
line. The absence of those days that are formed with light
will increase gloom much. The beacon stars keep their
watching eyes on the effusive and writhing holes.
The port keeps hidden far away from the touch of
far-touching death. The estuary of the island is still
secret. The constant flow of water—out of habit the heaving
and swaying of boats have postponed nightly adventures.
The vigilant pervasive looks of darkness dissipate dense
ambers over the sea.
Life is tougher than death;
Death is tougher than life;
One’s diagrams are checkered black and white;
The other’s borders are fond of decoration.
Let all the tensed hopes and aspirations of birth get canonized
to remembrance. The sun glides away to the horizon from
the empire of sandy beaches; the approaching noises come
and go away sensing the life left away by the dead.
We have included the realms of the soul into relation in
the multiplications of materials. A falling down leaf of
oblivion had its watchful eye on our last position. It has
to be subservient in the shawl of existence when the noisy
tongue of the sea, out of vicissitude, raises ambition in the
fetter of distance of the touchy stars.