I took a walk looking for a reason to come back home,
And searched for Beatrice along the way.

I too, a wayfarer looked for a response that cannot be homogenized
And sorrowed for breathlessly asking, “Then when?”

I told another woman, “Let Freud’s analysis reach that conclusion”, but how?
And subliminal feelings become another threatening worry.

I thought a word, lachrymose, finite, and resonant. That concisely besmirched her.  
And subsequently forgotten, but always tacit, “Why?”

I think about why looking for a reason to correspond becomes hopeless.
And Sisyphus falls backwards against the weight…