I am Warly Workies. For me life is a dense emotional self-conversation. A person who burns down in the chemistry lab of death between poetry and music. An emotional martyr being jailed for his protest against the gods with bread of mercy. This is a cost of how poetry and music converts deeply in the very same person. An invisible adventure of a mixture of sound and vision through the frequently walkable won't generate it from the thoughts broken in technology. Thank you. And deep around from Melbourne, you will be reading a poem by PolyWorkies which I have translated to English. It hurts. It hurts every time whatever done it hurts. While thinking it hurts, while conversing it hurts. Listen even, he is with water tears. While walking it hurts the earth. While breathing it hurts the wind. Broken moon, bleeding sun, scared stars, signals granting it vain. Here, wounded waterways and mountains, wounded legs, plenty of fish on wound-weaved nets, blood dripping sea. And the pouring rain is vaulted, river in drains have wounds, blood streaming all over the trees. How many birds feathers smell blood? How many animals roar from infected wounds? How many reptiles die scrubbed in forms? The results about ambitated tales, crickets about a wrecking cries, parrots about broken words. How many babies wail with peeled off skin? How many women are hurt by love? How many transgender kisses have I kept away? Why a bleeding history? Why a wounded sidewalks bust in palaces? Rewounded fiddles, poems, songs, aging of scary stories. Parents who set a float in broken childhoods, abandoned siblings, children who filled death accounts for death and sprouted for fathers, rejected friends, gains that hurt. Helpless dancers in blood dripping feet, sinking steps, trial lips, trembling letters. Look, there are thousands of people in this world, those who planted love on bursting pain, those who set off to travel with many colors to one same picture. There will be the thousandth of the first person being wounded or imparted hurt or tantrow of love. If that is true, it's called white sun. The most innocent neither born or dead. Infinite wandering is the truth. I am only a visitor. Travel, you would never return. Travel, you would never return. I am only a visitor.