Beloved, stand aside as I tighten the screws
and throw away the key.
Turn your face away when I crumple.
Don't look, as I turn to water.
Deep calls to deep, as thirst cries for relief.
The parched throat soaks up what it can get:
Sometimes rain, otherwise the morning dew.
Have you, too, yearned for oblivion
while bathed in the blinding light?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem