Around me is a cocoon of grief, I have to get rid of this cocoon , I want to break this tight swaddle so that I can fly with the butterfly and fly with the butterfly in the pure blue of the skies , if there is no place for me to find me, then where is this desire to jump from where there is no other thought in my head, that there is no other thought in my head
, the old earth, this tired patient , there is no place to find me anymore, there is no
other refuge for my worn-out body. I am not tired of this, there is no refuge other than my own arms
, you are not a martyr of disgrace, if our lips and hearts were one voice, we would not be captives of cocoon-making , if solidarity was our clothing, we must beware of this alienation, for loneliness is nothing but a path of calamity, for the horde of migratory chickens , there is no separation , conflict and life are not separated
, the old land of this tired patient is like there is no place for me to stay. My worn-out body is no refuge other than this tired body , there is no refuge other than this soul and body.
