Rocking, rocking,
jostled, jostled,
for so long, I’ve grown to be
as transparent as this.

But, getting rocked isn’t an easy matter, I’d say.

You can see through from outside, can’t you? Look.
In my digestive organs
a toothbrush with its brush worn down,  
and, a small amount of yellow water.             

No, sir, I have nothing as dirty as
a heart. Not by this late date.    
Waves took it away
along with the intestines.

Me? Me means
emptiness.
Emptiness, being rocked,
was rocked back, again, by the waves. 

I wilt, you may think, but then
I bloom wisteria-purple;
come night, at night,
I light a lamp.

No, what’s being rocked, truth be told,
is just the heart that has lost its body.
The thin oblate
that had wrapped the heart.

No, no, it’s no more than the tired shadow
of the pain of being rocked, rocked,
jostled, jostled,
until I became as empty as this.