At times, as I watch,
it seems as though my countryís body
floats down somewhere on the river.
Left alone, I grow into
a half-disembodied bamboo,
its lower part sunk
into itself on the bank.
Here, old widows and dying men
cherish their freedom,
bowing time after time in obstinate
While children scream
with this desire for freedom
to transform the world
without even laying hands on it.
In my blindness, at times I fear
Iíd wander back to either of them.
In order for me not to lose face,
it is necessary for me to be alone.
Not to meet the woman and her child
in that remote village in the hills
who never had even a little rice
for their one daily meal these fifty
And not to see the uncaught, bloodied
of sunsets cling to the tall white
of Parliament House.
In the new temple man has built nearby,
the priest is the one who knows freedom,
while God hides in the dark like an
And each day I keep looking for the
shadows find excuses to keep.
Trying to find the only freedom I know,
the freedom of the body when itís alone.
The freedom of the silent shale, the
the beds of streams of the sleeping
I keep the ashes away,
try not to wear them on my forehead.