By Fujimi (不死身)

Can you see it?
It's off in the distance, a long way away.
Its hand is outstretched to you,
And you're going to take it, aren't you?
Clutch it as if it's your only anchor to the living world.

Can you hear it?
The voices won't stop speaking to you.
They won't stop saying it's all your fault.
It's your fault for ending up like this.
And you think you should believe them,
Because this hand you've been holding onto is slowly loosening its grasp.
And the voices will be the only thing you've got left.

Can you feel it?
It burns, doesn't it?
Or does it feel like something is being ripped out of you?
Left in the blackness of an eclipse,
Left to ponder why you can feel something clawing at you inside,
But your hands are grasping the air,
And can't feel anything at all out here.

Can you remember what it was like?
Do you recall the feeling of hands encircling your body,
Of the pleasant warm sensation coming up out of your chest, making your face grin,
Instead of this blood-black one that burns your insides so?

Did you like it when somebody was close to you?
Did you like that gentle hand inside yours,
The liquid voice that made the other ones go away?

What is it that you have left?
You felt that hand leave yours,
And then the muttering returned.

You think that its foolish to see things and feel things
To hear things and remember things.

Because it's all your fault.
And you know that is all you have left now.

05 September 2006