I will carry this with me:
The memories of
Paralyzed forces
And shapeless forms;
Colorless shades and
Gesture-less motions.
The make-up of their lives.
I pray to the broken stone,
But know, now, that my solitude
Transcends
Life and death.
They are no different
And neither am I:
They remain dead
And I alive—
A foreigner, still,
Here among their
Ashes,
And the hollow ruins
Of their shattered
Monoliths of straw.