This poem cannot be
finished off writing,
this song not ended,
thirst not quenched;
Every memory refuses
to be effaced, every plot
declines to produce, every face
is reluctant to endure.
A dream unwilling to dissolve,
lingers forever– although
I do not know if
I am in the dream or out.
Wandering and transience
spread endless, dazzling rays.
What else can I send,
to feed everyone the
sweetness of unbitter
solitude, besides this poem?
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