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.