I have raised my eyes up to the light,
all around me is darkness and silence.
I have foregone, I have gone into,
still I walk the same echoing corridor.
I have wanted my face to be an open flower
a plenteous simplicity like the leaves.
There was in me then a simple singing.
But so many knives and so many daggers.
So many attempts, so many escapades.
I never seem to arrive at the beginning.
I never walk straight into the sunlight
and into the sound of flutes from the foliage .
The singing goes on in me repeatedly,
and I am the flowers and the foliage,
and I am the sunlight, and the waterfall,
and I am leaves moving in gladness,
and I am the sole imagination
in the midst of this darkness and silence,
briefly singing and then lingering
and silenced at last by knives and daggers.
There was in me then all a simple singing,
when I was young, when I was young.
