The bird is mortal.
And the flight in the expanse of the sky,
The touch of the breeze,
The gush of light,
Is immortal.

I saw my mother’s corpse in the mirror of excitement.
And the innocence of my sister
Withered under the sun of yearning.
And when my faith hung
From the fragile thread of justice,
And the whole city was darkened,
When they folded me up in the silk lining of loneliness,
I understood,
That we had to believe in the dawn of the cold season.