Beyond the Scene
The life that roams about beyond the scene,
beyond the limitless bank— in the dark
lays eggs and in the womb of the night brags
to see the baby of the golden age;
the life that puts aside days and adores
or still prays for nights, is uncaught lifelong,
a bait of cheats, a colourful cover—
which holds the cosmic darkness, the black hole.
It’s magic from the scene for the unseen.
The greed for unseen life snatches the youth
offered in cash in the grove of honey;
the lovers of the city just come back
with naked hands and sink into the dark
in the unbearable and painful nook.
Then that life makes no difference with that
which goes on with worshiping the darkness.
Such a life is for all time a blossom
unsmelt, untasted and pale in neglect
before it gets withered eternally,
a bath in the puddle of the vast sea
despite its having a pool of water.
Then who is this discolored life lent to
and which rule is laid down to suffocate
and pulverize it between the grinders?