It is myself I turn into,
To see the region of truth.
But there are fumes,
Blurring my inner blooms.
Fumes are like dreams,
Vanishing into the void.
They sprawl into vengeful clouds,
Like a smokescreen which shrouds,
The in-most perception of reality,
It devours the in-most gaiety.
( It is difficult to face reality if one does not know the hidden truth in oneself.)
