A Journey

Should I make you my world?
Considering how often I feel cold,
And all I want is to be held—
To leave all the pain that cannot be retold.

Serenity, too, has grown weary and old,
While my stories remain unsold.
These tears, too, cannot be foretold;
All I can do is lament to the tongueless cloud.

The wailing of a mother who’s lost her child
Aches like the whips of a rod—so wild.
For her, an early goodbye feels strangely odd.
Adieu, my string of odes!
Adieu, to a journey of which I am proud.