The water drop in the ocean,
dewdrop drying in the wind,
the fleeting spark…
The world can go on without me.
Life would continue
whether I am in it or not.
But it would be different
if I am not there.

There is a blood-ascertained reality
in unmerciful Nature.
The art of handling sickness is akin to health.
The art of dying is akin to immortality.

My narration has not found its shape yet.
The night confession has not been sown.
I did learn to be sick more or less.
I am just starting to learn how to die.

And as I realize that I am but a hostage,
and that the deadlines are nearing,
so with a fervor of a schoolboy
I rush to party,
miss classes and skip homework.