First I think of writing something.
Then I think of erasing it.
Then I think of hiding it in a metaphor.
Again I think of erasing it.

Nonetheless, I write.
Nonetheless, I erase.
The more I erase, the more I write.

Yet, my pen does not have enough ink to describe what I feel.

Since there is no escape, since at the end
My body will be utterly destroyed,
This hand I love as I have loved a friend,
This body I tended, wept with and enjoyed;
Since there is no escape even for me
Who love life with a love too sharp to bear:
The scent of orchards in the rain, the sea
And hours alone too still and sure for prayer —
Since darkness waits for me, then all the more
Let me go down as waves sweep to the shore
In pride; and let me sing with my last breath;
In these few hours of light I lift my head;
Life is my lover—I shall leave the dead
If there is any way to baffle death.