I did not forge that river
whose current drags the living down
and tosses a carcass to its banks
I only wet my feet—that for a few days
became lifeless. The river was not
the stable still continuous flow I thought it to be.
I could not cross that river
I never tread that path
where my tiny range-bound hands
were fated to be brushed by the beast
swallowing its solitude,
by the leopard’s clawing paws.
I cleared that forest with my gaze
thinking it useless to render it so, my eyes
turned back immediately.
The forest was not blessed
with the security, solitude and pleasure
I thought there to be
I could not pass through that forest.
Not again did I step through to brigand night
whose tusk now gnaws the moon
having devoured the sun.
Only a morning, naively, reached day
and it blanched with night—its whole body
so soon took on the darkest hues.
Night was not the cove—
warm, impregnated with mild dream—
I thought it to be
I could not immerse myself in the black liquids of that night.
