Bodyshop

In the grip of pride,
pain climbs scar by scar,
along the failed inscriptions
I follow forward—
a dust-choked path,
a worn-out sky,
the nectar of painted dreams
etched into blood and flesh,
into their fragile reflection.
Thousands of pages turn,
lines of words marching ahead
toward a tradition without meaning,
toward the path of infinity.
It feels as if years ago,
perhaps from the very birth,
the wings of knowledge began to spread.
Yet still, so much pain remains,
and pride lingers,
speaking with the erased souls
in the language of a wise poem.
After so much knowing,
I find myself hungry.
Knowledge has not yet arrived.
The body cannot be separated
from its science of living,
however much I wished it.
Instead, it is easier—
to play the fool,
to laugh as an idiot,
ignoring morality,
staying alone in silence.
The heart, erased from the road,
does not wait for wisdom—
not even for the honesty of the body.
And I cannot even laugh
with purity anymore.
The weight of thousands of pages
has tired me out,
has made me heartless.
Mechanization has grown,
its comings and goings endless,
abandoning its books of life.
Perhaps someone will come to live—
with only knowledge in hand.
But to this city without a heart
they will never return.
Body–Mind:
in the forgotten household of flesh,
the last cry of humanness
calls out.