What are pleasure and pain to us,
Held in the grip of time's hand, as we are?
Hostage to the intervention of circumstance,
Or privy to the secrets of youth or age;
What do we know, and who could we tell it to,
Even if somebody wanted to listen to us?

What am I, that I should be walled in by your eyes;
When you could choose, out of the entire world,
Why choose something tangent, perishable,
Entangled in this solitude of emotion?
Our paths are lonely, though we pass close by,
Caught up in our own brand of darkness,
Suffering our own unquiet silences.

We are impenetrable forests
Lost inside of a fairy tale,
Dreamed up by an imaginary god
Who is so long ago,
So far away, by now..