We are all liars;
Scratching the floors for the truth underground.
What have we but the guts of flowers?
The innermost tragedy of beauty.
-
Seldom are we dancing with the river,
For we are busied thinking it fog
To compensate for the lack of the Autumn
And to create havens for the poor.
-
Let our nails mark the absence of time
On the willows,
And let us dig into our own graves
Creating peace with its ghosts.
 -
For there is nothing like the peace of the deceased
Who are happy in their sleep.
They were once liars, holding their lips
And lifting wood into the skies.