On this rainy afternoon
while I walk alone the streets
the music that my shoes make
on the wet asphalt
sounds to my ears
like a funeral symphony
and my walk like a dead march.
Casually raising my eyes
to the mountain in front me
I notice that the white cloud
which in the morning
was kissing the mountain
is there no more.
So, I say to myself;
‘these wet drops falling
are not the rain drops,
autumn clouds
the little tick before
each petal falls
Our jail mentality has us
observing the fatted Geese
lining the courtyard walls.
Black and white sentinels, guards,
while my celly and I thought:
the freedom of birds, flights
out of here, past the glass.
Breezes, the speed of clouds.
Facing north
after the snowstorm
windless clouds.
Even as I came
to a suitable cliff,
clouds opened
to a hawk,
riding wind.
From one hill to another extended
some grey clouds like clothes hanging on wire.
They hide the sun in their pockets and sleeves
making the day feel sad and depressed.
The birds with their beaks are pecking at them
in search of illumination and unfettered horizons
Their love for light and for the clean blue-sky,
has earned them wings and blessed their flight.
Here I hear a footstep,
Its voice is grey and soft:
Is it that of a forgotten ghost ?
So, a rain-drop drops, ....
Yes, one, two, three.
Up in the sky there is a cloud,
Its sight is old as Earth :
Who says it is the passing soul ?
At my feet I see a falling leaf,
And the cloud is gone.
After the night wind blows
My soul follows to seek Rest :
Is the wind my mother lost ?
Under the robe of darkness and love
My heart throbs happily with bliss.
In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud.
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
“The spring is like a belle undressing.”
The gold tree is blue.
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,
And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone,
Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping place,
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone.
The lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,
These, these remain, but I record what's gone. A crowd
Will gather, and not know it walks the very street
Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud.
I AM a cloud in the heaven's height,
The stars are lit for my delight,
Tireless and changeful, swift and free,
I cast my shadow on hill and sea--
But why do the pines on the mountain's crest
Call to me always, "Rest, rest"?
I throw my mantle over the moon
And I blind the sun on his throne at noon,
Nothing can tame me, nothing can bind,
I am a child of the heartless wind--
But oh the pines on the mountain's crest
Whispering always, "Rest, rest."
Your mind and mine are such great lovers they
Have freed themselves from cautious human clay,
And on wild clouds of thought, naked together
They ride above us in extreme delight;
We see them, we look up with a lone envy
And watch them in their zone of crystal weather
That changes not for winter or the night.
Grey, drooping-shouldered bushes scrape the edges
Of bending swirls of yellow-white flowers.
So do my thoughts meet the wind-scattered color of you.
A green-shadowed trance of water
Is splintered to little, white tasseled awakenings
By the beat of long, black oars.
So do my thoughts enter yours.
Split, brown-blue clouds press into each other
Over hills dressed in mute, clinging haze.
So do my thoughts slowly form
Over the draped mystery of you.