The Echo Returns Not
My mind is calm. My senses are composed.
To all kinds of responses, I'm disposed.
Why, my soul, that flew like a boomerang
Gets stuck within vines that, like coiled snakes, hang
Is my soul glad there while I wail in pain?
What, for my long life herein, do I gain?
Within new blooms, my soul might take shelter.
Is my body made to face mere welter?
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