The last beachside I visited your own funeral.
I remembered the drizzle fell for the first time,
when I led you home first.
When the seagulls fly low overhead,
then the wind blows north,
and the beach sand embraces our cold feet,
it turns out the sea is where I no longer find you.

Chanting sounded like a curse of freedom.
I don't hear your singing anymore,
when I once decided to **** myself
on the cliff shore
where many thistles grow,
but you
invite me for another time.