In this life, I only wish
to say a few things,
I yearn to mold word to thought,
hah! I'm already outdone.
I only want to make a word
strain in sorrow like the flute,
whispering the secret joy of death, of breath.
And yet, I am wordless before my essence,
I live only to speak this language without words,
once uttered, I will be relieved of this circling dance.