It seems as if silence
is all that is left between us.
The pen has broken.
You look at such far distances
but miss what lies right before you.
You leave this land barren,
in hope of cultivating some other land.
But what have you ever cultivated?
Everywhere you go,
gardens become cages.
It isn’t the garden that is a cage,
it is you;
you carry chains wherever you go.