The Empty Set

For all the one-time beautiful white ibises that have migrated
from the smoke-filled crimson skies, for all the cows
that have abandoned the dry lands and colourless thickets,
for all the lilies that have withered in unceasing autumn,
for all the sensibilities that have been raped, for all the
gloom and doom in this cocoon so worrying,
the time has been never fitting for anything

What is absent, the warmth of spring inside us
and the four corners of our homes, we found them ironically,
in abundance outside our own self and in far away lands
far away from home; and what is empty now in the
summer or winter of yonder, when we are inside this bare
abundance, far from the glaring eyes of
our shadows and nakedness and nothingness

In our islands of happiness
the ocean of tragedy scorns;

Exceeding control—
Neither here nor there—

Unknown pins puncture
Inside us, all the places
On the outside
We are a floating mass.



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