I am walking.
I am walking, trampling the dewy grass
in the misty meadow
with my rough boots.
Mother, do you hear me?
I am almost there.
My right pocket is a little heavier than my left–
just a precaution, in case I fail.
The sky is blue,
but faded by the clouds.
The pine needles sway gently
when the wind howls.
There is no one around,
just a tiny canary
on a lonely branch
of a crooked tree.
I drank, Mother,
but not much–
maybe a few glasses in a row.
I have also desired something once before,
but I had to leave it
in the back rooms of my soul.
My soul had aged in the spring of my life
so much that, as I grew older,
I expected to shed the years.
I was searching for a more conscientious world.
Perhaps it exists.
Mother, do not ask.
I am still searching.
I hope it is at the end of this abyss–
that silent world.
My scent might linger on the pillowcases.
Or when you hear my favourite songs,
I would be dancing to them
in the most idyllic places.