Heavy as fruit on the branch,
a soul can fade, poisoned with ghosts.
Helpless as sea grass afloat,
a soul can waste, menaced by ghosts.
Who is so strong to resist
for what we have never seen?
What is the seed, planted deep,
that ever insists
on a thing we must need?
Who is the arbiter
granting ghosts form,
and why is he sleeping for me?
For if I were born without a head
I should not miss it like this.
Desire, be gentle with me who admires
but dares not to hope anymore.
Desire, be gentle with me who only aspires
to love no ghost anymore.