My Battle

After self-immolation,
what has been left with me
except the poems.

The tree will not speak now.
There was a good run-off
from the surface of golden leaves.

I will not meet the music
of sunset. There was a constant
flow of murmuring thoughts at night.

The narrative remembers the -
departure, but does not expect
anything from moon.

I will remain awake till
the dawn, then go
to a long sleep.