Between branches of a weeping willow,
Half a hexagon above puzzle fragments,
Moon's dim haze reflects from the wall
Just over the path of my front garden,
What lies beyond the gate?
With eleven years of age, I have to ask:
What is there? – I do not know.

Which direction, what plan to adopt?
Then my actions fall into the 'you',
Giving answers, fragile or counteracting
How does inanimate matter work anyhow?
With fifteen years I have to ask again:
How do I comprehend? – But
Every new heart, a new question.

Pursuing my readings like a fad,
With nineteen years, I still have to ask,
Erring randomly along a silhouette band,
Dead between red planes of sky and lake,
At one corner: how? At the next: what?
A billboard ad, repellingly darts back:
Truth can only be found in a vision.