When I wrote of the women in their dances and  wildness， it was a mask，

    on their mountain， gold-hunting， singing， in orgy，

    it was a mask； when I wrote of the god，

    fragmented， exiled from himself， his life， the love gone down with song，

    it was myself， split open， unable to speak， in exile from myself.

    There is no mountain， there is no god， there is memory

    of my torn life， myself split open in sleep， the rescued child

    beside me among the doctors， and a word

    of rescue from the great eyes.

    No more masks！ No more mythologies¹！

    Now， for the first time， the god lifts his hand，

    the fragments join in me with their own music.