The willow keeps importuning me with her gliding catkins.Her twigs, coquettish hairs of the virgin. The cold wind spanks me with her amorous moisture.
She takes all my wraps off. She makes me grovel and writhe.
I'm irrepressible dead there but glorious live here.
Yes, the whole universe flirting with me. With me, non-entity. The breeze of death grants me falls of eternity.
Imbued with the Holy Spirit, I put to death my drunken father. And then become the descendant of Oedipus.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PuisiOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
