Living my own way
like flint,
you will not read
my cosmology.

We two, keep quiet in―
the same book― I
want to read some
hidden message from you.

A day slips into night.
What a consumption of will.
The train stops at the terminus―
without a traveler.

Stepping out, from the
grave of body― you will throw
a reflection, of the nerves,
in a wreath.