MyDepressionList

Heavenly alts are to me like wheat swaying in a field,

The unnoticed wind passes by my gaze and does not stop my eyes,

Neither envy nor interest — plainness is no obstacle on the eightfold path,

Let my body turn to dust, my soul shall remain satisfied,

For long ago it found the longed-for bosom.

But why are the bites of melancholy serpents so painful all of a sudden?

The gleam of the almighty coin, the echo of a ghostly nest,

The absence of a gift, the decay of a mortal body?

The treacherous drops of regret have turned into a river,

And the fingers of thirst have mercilessly clutched my insides.