It is very simple;
Let's go straight to the point,
Thinking between ourselves
In a loud voice. It is very simple
As only simple things
Weave the pattern
Of some sacramental things --
The only worthwhile stuff we strive for.

This is the way the rocks
Turn into the desert sand that melts
Under the pressure of windy blows
All over above the World Ocean.

In time, through the ultimate survival,
The dust will scatter to return to dust.
In the meantime, pull your horses
And stop letting me cry. . . See,
This is not the tears, it is the wool
Over my blue deep eyes. No doubt,
We're all busy now:
One with the shedding tears,
Another with the telling lies.

But our trades are all the same
Under the name of 'Vanity of Vanities'
With the capital 'V', as is alleged.
It actually doesn't matter,
As we pay back for that with our time.
Time is the most valued base coin,
So no one keeps it in one's bosom,
Or in the bank-house or in a kitty-cat.

Yes, we pay for everything time
And again: for every drop of time
Put on a sheet of paper, a piece of wood
We make with a childish penknife,
Carving 'Here I've been! Don't forget me.'
Another short lovely verse, a long and
Entangled line, a speck of letter inside
The flashed universal spark we leave
Behind our vanished design.

See, all these are clean again,
No exclamations, no commas,
No division in paragraphs, no full stops,
Just the loose letters. . .
Narration streams between
The endless cliffs,
Seizing itself by its dog-like tail,
Running in circles, curve after curve,
Moving strictly behind itself, in the round
As though the moon's disc transfer,
Dressing its daily rituals in daylight and darkness,
Black-and-white again, doing it completely in vain
Because the true meaning of all writings
Is concealed in what is between the lines
And out of disputes and discussions.

On the pedestrian crossings
Everything turns into the opposite shade,
Making undeveloped Three
Bigger than the central Five;
As to the number Four, it is all divided
Into Eights many times in a row. . .
Thus, time makes the times
And what we call 'the sacramental secret,'
'The secret of all secrets' --
The Changes here and next door.

In this state of complete amazement
We are good at contemplating changes,
Turning the sheets of time and generating
One, and two, and three, . . and then DNA.
Hence, being timed ourselves, we brush
Through the sheets of time to reach the end
Of the meaningless writing.
For this simple reason, I've written
This knocking out the mind composition,
Due to which no one will ever discover
How the reddish dust of my corporal soul
Become the Red Bird over again,
Fleeing away straight in the south. . .
But hold on and tell me,
Is it the end or just the very beginning
Of a new coil of sustained efforts?