What dusty sorrow!
Muted words of sorrow!
Sorrow all used up, useless! useless!
I can’t use this sorrow, it won’t make me happy.
My bird has flown away, over the ocean.
Before the desert cactus, the lonely poet is sighing.
My heart is empty now, my bird has flown its cage.
What to do now? Only two words emerge.
Moth.
Flame.
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