Of our latent expectations at the top,
Trickery in an urn, in suspension before the fall
Of a slight mist of sadness floating in the hut.
Of past poetic writings.
All this is just a lampoon
To my own person.
And the person will not respond if I sound.
The imaginary has no equal,
In that he surpasses the infernal reality.
Coat of illusions,
In order to warm up
From a torpor on mission
A prisoner’s heart.
We close, we defend ourselves,
To protect oneself from a pain lying.
So, my respects.
More than it seems, we taunt.
Alone, regret to appear as a dark tyrant
In order to hide a pure spirit sighing,
Only seeking interest-free acceptance,
But, however, posing as a kinglet,
Too scared to be exposed
By such an interesting muse.