I fear that there is nothing left to write--
The well of words I drilled has now gone dry;
I've given over being to this blight,
Destroyed by that which I was nourished by.
The passions moving me I can't express:
Buds unfurling bursts of green and gold,
The sweet and silken feel of hand's caress,
So sharply felt, unable to be told.
All is vanity, there is no hope,
So let me burn my papers, break my pen;
When emptied of their meaning, shrunk in scope,
What use is word and wonder to me then?
Faced with the All, all language falters, dead;
All I can say is: nothing can be said.