Is it so useless to talk

With these still shades?

Sometimes it seems that

I spy my moves

Through the vent of a glass stone.



...But what am I observing?

The sandpit I'm digging

Doesn't seem deep enough,

'cause the cries of the wounded wave

are covering my strains.



But I long for this amorphous embrace

To reach close connections with my

Ego:

This is the spiral...



Is it so useless to talk

with these still shades?