There
is no town but a girl from the town captures the poet’s attention.
The
yellow and the blue befit the night’s singularity - cool and dark - the time
when one rests his (or her) aching heels. But the night is a cauldron of hot water.
One can get his fingers singed by the smoldering stars. It is the path to the hushed
peace of death.
The
serpent swallows the stars but is unseen. Death is concealed in the elaborate
curves of life.
The
stars move and so does the moon. Living forms exhort her: this is how I want to die.
The
night is a dragon that would suck her up; nay, she won’t slip into death. She
only splits from her life. Their paths might cross again.
Her
urge to die does not dissipate in the immateriality of transient moods.
Her
urge to die is not a solitary refrain lost in the incorporeality of contourlessness
in a chaotic infinitude of unrestrained colours.
Her
longing has truly dissolved itself into form.
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