He cannot see the end of the road.
All the water has gone dry, tasting bitter.
Filthy, pitiful hands scratch on the parchment,
Plying at words forsaken and accident.
At his neck hang thy lock and thy persimmon,
Resuming constant delay without permission,
As the earth moves beneath and behind,
And he is conveyed forward as if on a belt.
For merely pondering a single inquiry
Thrown into the deepest ditch at the side of the road,
He asks roundabout for his destination,
Haplessly finding no such abode.
Why did you leave the keys on the table?
Because I did not think I was able
To keep myself alive
Long enough, to turn the key and drive.
The wind blows the question along;
Deserts of blizzards whistle sheer,
Playing an empty cadenza of a song,
And a single car passing disrupts all this only for a moment.
Tassels of icicles are suspended on branches, and the fire—
It is crying, aching, dying out
Within his heart, smoldering on the route,
Given the circumstance that no telegram can wire.
And in his pocket, wrinkled and worn,
Lies the parchment with one last sentence:
Irritably the finality of frozen desire, edges torn,
In penmanship expressed with such calm clairvoyance.
At his side glimmers in transience
A steel lustre in sombre fluorescence
Handled so delicately, mirrored with existence,
Trudging along with reminiscent persistence.
And plunged into his very heart, this steel lustre
After an echoing silence he cries out, without audience,
“Teacher, I’ve finally the Answer!”
And scenery fades—twin lights returning to incidence.