How illness gnaws a person
in the cracks of the heart,
the drumstick tree is chopped down
on a late summer day.
He knows how the crumpling legs
would have waited for him in a yellow dress,
under the dispersed shadows of the lane,
those phantoms still rove inside him,
he hopes each day and each night
in mumbling pains of what might
wait for his dead-leaf life in serendipity.
It’s another day under a sun-baked lane,
under rustling, thick dry leaves,
under the bygone peace of ancestors
under the fragile wish to see again
the face in the mirror, under a sun-baked lane.
He desires to leave before the world,
under a serene morning in a drongo’s warbling,
to prevent himself from their watery eyes,
but he opposes leaving before the world
desiring to witness how those eyes shed tears
after he ceases to crunch on the garden.
It’s not possible either way, either sense, either path.
It’s strange to be caught in an endless dilemma,
in endless dilemmas.
