Poetry

Weep every don.
All the translations were fake.
 
The yellow peaks do not burn the
sky, now at sunrise.
 
I am forgetting myself―
in the gathering of my foes.
 
The pilgrim's path is now dirty.
You cannot transcend the―
 
dead remains of ancestry. In
the hutment, that was the end of view.
 
Nightblindness. I cannot fathom
out the saint descending a great depth.
 
From beastkinds I swim back
to save an unborn epic.