Our paths always meet beyond thoughts
In a place where even if you want to draw lines with a pencil,
Take them by a leg and throw them farther away from people,
You cannot take them out of your mind,
Each path is like a line on a destiny.
Your paths, if you want to touch them,
The action is stringing you,
The sinews in the arm,
You cannot catch them by the middle and shake,
On those paths, the horses without manes are running,
The ones with odd hoofs,
With freedom taken off,
The most sharpest competing in being more fleeting and alive than living water.


When we are young, paths sinuate on the shoulders
And we carry them as if they are stone hollows in our bones,
We are not searching for directions,
We are looking for the paths' end right inside us,
Not looking at their footways.


Those paths are squeezed by the children's laughter,
They twist under their soles,
Paths untwist in front of the point like snakes,
Or shell from a point like vernal snails,
Or from the man's self when our choices
Flow over the body
Hushing the free will,
Until we depend on a crossway
And on paths made crosses in the air.