Let me tell you about suffering

because I was a boy cold without love

in a large house， so dark it stifled^{1 laughs.}

I would run to my mother with stones

only to drop them under a grim gaze

so harsh I felt tossed in a freezing bath.

Her words， like a cicada's shrill^{2 chirp3， pierced}

the long summer afternoons of my hopes.

I can still remember my brother's folded hands

in the coffin^{4， how kissing them burnt me.}

I cried uncontrollably， torched inside

with processional fires held by shadowed monks⁵

cowled in their black walk through narrow streets

of my town， terrifying my heart forever.