How is it the new books describe What the old books already wrote? You were the mattering For a perfect world. My eyes see glimmers. Perhaps it is the stars that I witness, Perhaps the beautiful moon over a lake, Though it is only my tears. My understanding Of what is so real as death, Is not my understanding of what is unreal As my life. You were the sunrise in the morning, Until you became the darkness that mingles In the evening's colors. You became what I lost of myself In the twilight, In the spring. Why do we reach for better tomorrows? What is there left, besides simple sorrow? I am the pacifist, with an emptiness, For I fight only during the night, Warding sleep in my early coffin. Running currents from my eyes, Remaining dried there Upon the surface, so bare.