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A cold rectangle of the moonlight
Descend into the pitch-black realms
Agonising restlessness
A dweller in between the worlds
Not asleep nor awake
In reverie, the rivers collide
The stream incoherent and spastic
A shapeless mass slithering down into the chasm

Unlike the crow of Gautama, the ascetic
I cannot banish the stone from my sight
Unbearable sense of my weakness
Overpowers me and binds me
My body asleep, senses detached
The ever-occurring question
Who am I
Who is this I now

Again and again
With obscene persistence
An obstinate voice keeps insisting
Tireless as a shutter
Blown by the wind against the wall
Like distant recalls

There is no escape from the void

A hundred times I dare to object
A thousand times I deny
I voluntarily give up all resistance
I cast myself into the stream
Of endless interrogations

There is no escape from the voice.

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