O, thousands of gilt seas reflect on thousands of afterlife memories. Thousands of clouds aloft thrust into thousands of waves.
One day, transcendent me, climbing over plateaus of time. To see every past me tripped into existence. Over and over again, pain without gain.
One day the sky meets with that avaricious sea. I portend that world is a timeless machine. It is equipped with more diversity than depth. I portend that the depth of things is not inside them, but out of themselves, somewhere else.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PoetryOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
