In books lies the soul Of the whole past time The articulate audible Voice of the past When the body And material substance Of it has altogether Vanished like a dream
Do not turn your face towards me Confronting me with my loneliness You are in a forest unknown The secret orchard And your voice is vast and achromatic But still so precious
Why did you kill me, mommy? When God made me so special for you? I really thought that you cared for me. But I guess you didn't. Because mommy, You killed me.