PROTOPLASM

In the darkness of the night, when you cry
and cannot sleep, like a bird in a cage- it closes
and is depressed, smites obfuscation.
One person is scared? Consciousness separates?
The pain in the interior of the chest increases again.

Because it is nothing but painful,
Painful, and it is painful in the morning that
does not dawn.
Begging to the frightening* sky, everyday life ceases to end
and is bound in the chaos that pours down, to the cartridge.
Continue to decorate it, while self denial is hidden, under it, lying.
You’re skillfully alive now.

What time was lost? Even thinking it’s important is broken.
Taking even the memory, with the heart, it’s become dirty,
and dyed with actuality, by the far world.

Stare at the essential qualities.The vicinity overflows with the lie.
Open the door of time.Touch your past.Search for the existing reason.
The mind is sure to awake.The true future begins to appear.
The living thing is composed of protoplasm.It listens and is started.
Certain heart sound and second hands.It is only a prelude.
But…As long as you are.It doesn’t finish ringing.

The truth you held quietly, while tears you embraced, quietly,
and closely, in reality.

Shouting destroys the subdued way of thinking, it passes every
day, under the surface, screaming.

Destruction that can touch the frightening* sky and break it open!
I become dirty, turning over my heart** and the door of time.

It will begin to show the dream of time, in the interior of the pupil,
shedding tears into the future, one drop.

The place where the sun does not reach,
The deep sea, from which the casket is obtained,
light from within this hand, return again.

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