The dead still prowl in the alleys of life;
the dead still fly off and see in silence
our living, hubbub, smiles, and cries.
In this solitary bustle of the panopticon
the dead still strive to convince us
what is beyond our sense.
The dead still come more alive than the living,
and wind the sail of our spirit on various occasions
so that we can cross the fathomless ocean of crises.
The dead still never sleep
just after they go to sleep once;
the dead are still vigilant,
and prod us as conscience.
Such a sharp sight they have
as the sun of the full noon
to keep us under surveillance!
Yet those who think of themselves as living,
and leap in pride over the gorge of unfairness,
this prod cannot awaken.
They are truly more dead than the dead—
they think their dead mind in the living body
as nectar, and so drink it in numbness.
copyright © 2017 by the poet