My non-existent literature.
My words know their freedom
When you will light the incense in my funeral.
I see them celebrating my absence.
My documented works will not speak of
My frenzy when I threw Vak away;
The value of my flesh will not speak of
my delirium when I wanted to be an ordinary lover.
They exist in my death.
Will come alive
When the old bearded man will come
and take away his little daughter
alive in translation
and you shall celebrate