These poems are lost to me
Like the dead, there is no returning again
To what was, old loves
My mind feels them shouting there
Those who have died to us
Once here, now gone
It is the same with the music of the night
Grief dies to my renewal
I regenerate my lips, my ears, my thirst
Like a mausoleum of longing
I am, without ever being satisfied
I wake up to radiant mornings
Each and every day, jasmine at my feet
And I write poems, like lost waterfalls
Missed sunrises, broken comets
Stars on the tips of forgotten inheritance
These poems are lost to me
Like the emptying fulfillment of breath
Like a kind of solution to what I am
I create a rhetoric of distinguished ambiguity
Legislating my soul to be free
An embroidery without worldly cares
These poems are lost to me
I am not a thief of possession
But rather, a common beggar
With the guarantee of unearthly words.
Wuji Seshat 