Facing the Sky

The traces she clearly knows,

I may stumble upon by chance.

They need to be covered again,

Most feared—this is a kind of respect.

The wounds she hasn’t fully recognized,

Unintentionally seen by me,

Must remain exposed,

Not feared—this is a kind of impulse.

The purpose is the cycle,

The cycle is the purpose,

I follow the latter more faithfully.

As long as the stars don’t fall,

Let loneliness marry the eyes.