There is a big tree on the lake;
It is a cool bedsheet of shade.
Gazing at it, I feel ashamed for the desire
To smear it and kill myself there, in you.
My suicide is to exhaust my sperms into you.
But how could I defile and hurt you
and not bring you lasting pain?
Who can tell of the water’s agony
When a boat cleaves a path through its surface?
When I am dead, who can convince you
That your wrinkles are achingly beautiful
For I have been there?
The tree on the lake face reestablishes itself in the night;
No one will see its calmness under the water.
September 21, 2008