It's not you who the mirror forgets to reflect,

not you washing away the colors of your dress

in a river tainted by the suicidal corpses of freedom.

My eyes were just opening, my mind

spreading like a bird's wings in flight.

I'm not you,

who fought to be an individual—

I...I have done something much cheered for;

I killed my thought with my bare hands,

in the name of conformity.