I left the window open -
  The window of a bourgeois hotel.
  A street ran through my head when I contemplated,
  And hundreds of cars and motorbikes when I meditated.
  All of my brain was exhausts and flashlights;
  And my eyes in the mirror reflected
  Fluttering filaments
  Of failing harp strings.
  The world civilized me to ruins.
  Not choose to be chosen,
  But was chosen to choose,
  Like I, in fact, do not live in this city.
  It is the city lives in me.
  So to keep up with the evolution,
  One must put up with the monotonous
  Attunement
  And upgrade for a fixed fate.
  Earthworms know this well.
  They blindly fertilize the soil,
  Which serves them no good,
  And blindly entangle with one another
  When it gets cold,
  Sharing slimes and stirring smells.
  They work, intercourse, comfort,
  Blindly;
  But they don't really hate the dirt.
  A heap of stone is bound to fall;
  The one that was built on the track
  Is especially dangerous.
  So which is inevitable and unstoppable?
  The nimble, innocent train
  Or the grand heap of stone?
  I do not know.
  I left the window open,
  But heard not the tinkling notes of the harp;
  A boisterous, thriving street instead.