Body half buried in sand, still it's lolling its tongue. Over this invertebrate's head, pebbles and brine rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle, flowing, fl… - Sakutarō Hagiwara

If those who have already committed suicide and are dead were to become alive once again and speak, they would probably talk of the actuality of this. They are all regretting ghosts in their graves. I think about this a hundred times and am still terrified, and I shudder even in my dreams.

From cause-and-effect's destiny's fixed law's
miserable
dry plate of a landscape on which despair has frozen
run away the pale shadow.

[T]o me poetry is neither a mystery nor a religion. Even less is it "a life-or-death work" or "a sacred way of ascetic training." It is nothing more than "a sad consolation" for me.