I am plastered with minimarts and motorcycles -
a street so overwhelming to the senses,
but imprinted on the backs of the hands of
Mr. Yamamoto, Craig Miller, Agus Gunawan, and Sergei Ivanov.
What were they running away from again?
A tattered - sinfully boring - machine-repetitive life?
The thing about me is; even though you trash me
with cigarette butts and remnants of your sour past,
I am only a taste of tradition -
a façade before the secrets of the Gods unveil -
and you can bet that two October bombs won't dull my lambent.
In any case, you must purge the storm of serpents
before you sleep, and step into
the silence of monks.
But remember, the distance between your soul and mine will never change. Ever.