I am
from
Kashan,
I am
doing
fine,
Make
a
modest
living,
Have
some
wits,
some
talent.
I
have
a
mother
better
than
blooming
green
leaves.
And
honest
friends
clear
like
waterfalls
of
some
remote
corners
of
this
earth.
And
I
have
a
God,
A
God
who
lives
close-by
my
house,
Between
these
oleanders
in
the
garden,
Or
on
the
face
of
the
water
in
the
pool,
Or
in
the
veins
of
the
trees.
I am
a
Muslim;
My
kiblah
is a
rose;
My
prayer
book
is
as
vast
as
the
arms
of
rivers,
As
bright
as
the
face
of
the
sun.
And
I
pray
over
the
expansion
of
the
meadow.
I
cleanse
my
heart
in
the
stream
of
lights,
Flowing
from
wide
open
windows.
And
how
full
my
prayer
is
with
the
moon,
With
the
clouds,
with
colourful
rainbows.
But
yet
you
can
see
the
rocks,
The
sea
and
the
stones
through
the
soul
of
my
words.
I
cleanse
my
heart
with
the
stream
of
lights
Flowing
from
wide
open
windows.
And
I
pray
whenever
the
breeze
calls
up,
From
the
green
heights
of
the
willows
And
I
pray
behind
the
dancing
mass
of
the
grass,
Or
over
the
flying
crowd
of
the
waves.
My
God
lives
by
the
rivers
Lives
under
the
bunch
of
acacias
My
God,
light
as
the
breeze,
flows
from
turf
to
turf,
From
heart
to
heart,
from
town
to
town.
I am
from
Kashan.
I
paint
for
living.
Once
in a
while
I
make
a
cage
with
paper
and
paint
And
I
sell
it
to
you
To
listen
to
the
song
of
the
caged
lily
Whenever
you
feel
lonely.
Well,
I
dream…
now
I
dream,
Because
I
know
My
doodles
are
lifeless.
Yes,
I
know,
the
lake
of
my
painting
Has
no
swimming
fish.
I am
from
Kashan.
Who
knows,
I
may
descend
from
a
tree
in
Varanasi,
Or a
pottery
jar
lost
in
the
hills
of
Sialk,
Or a
young
prostitute
from
Samarqand.
My
father
is
lying
dead
now,
Right
behind
a
few
comes
and
goes
of
the
migrating
birds,
Right
behind
a
few
blows
of
snow,
Right
behind
a
few
hot
summer
nights
on
the
roof,
My
father
is
lying
dead
now
For
some
time.
When
my
father
died,
the
sky
was
blue.
My
mother
suddenly
woke
up.
My
sister
became
pretty.
When
my
father
died
the
soldiers
wrote
poetry.
And
then
a
farmer
asked
me:
“How
many
melon
would
you
take?”
And
I
replied:
“Don’t
you
sell
the
clusters
of
peace
to
hang
in
one's
heart?”
My
father
could
paint,
My
father
could
make
Tar
that
he
could
also
play,
He
had
a
pleasing
handwriting
too.
Our
garden
was
on
the
right
side
of
the
shades
of
wisdom,
Our
garden
was
at
the
intersection
of
feeling
and
foliage,
Our
garden
was
the
meeting
point
of
sight,
border
and
mirror.
Maybe
our
garden
was
an
arc
from
the
green
Circle
of
Paradise.
And
there
I
was
chewing
the
unripe
fruit
of
God
in
my
every
dream.
I
was
drinking
cold
water
without
the
ice
of
philosophy.
I
was
picking
blackberries
without
the
ladder
of
science.
The
fertile
heart
of
the
pomegranate
always
laid
Within
the
fountain
of
my
yen.
The
wings
of
the
doves
always
called
My
fleeing
mind
to
the
lengthy
trips.
And
sometimes
loneliness
would
arrive,
And
stick
her
cold
cheek
to
the
clean
glass
of
the
window,
And
then
the
passion
would
come,
Holding
my
shoulders
in
her
warm
hands,
Setting
free
again
my
sense
of
the
endless
play.
And
then
life
was
something
Like
a
shower
on
the
New
Year’s
Eve,
Like
a
poplar
tree
and
the
sparrows
in
his
arms.
Life
was
then
only
a
room
full
of
dolls,
of
toys
and
of
lights.
Life
was
like
a
train
heading
towards
freedom
and
laugh,
Life
was
then
a
vast
sky
of
songs.
The
child
slowly
moved,
Fading
away
in
the
blizzard
of
butterflies,
Crickets
and
sands.
And
I
bit
by
bit
packed,
Leaving
that
dreamy
land.
My
heart
was
full
of
grief,
Grief
for
all
the
lost
butterflies,
In
the
sand
storm
of
time.
I
went
to
the
gathering
of
the
world,
To
the
turf
of
sorrow,
To
the
garden
of
mystics,
To
the
ornamented
tower
of
science,
And
I
went
up
to
the
ladder
of
religion,
Down
to
the
lane
of
doubt,
Beyond
the
cool
breeze
of
ease,
To
the
moist
misty
night
of
kindness.
And
once
I
soared
away
to
the
visit
of
someone
At
the
glowing
edge
of
love.
I
went,
I
went,
I
went
until
the
woman
emerged.
I
went,
I
went
To
the
light
of
delight,
To
the
silence
of
yearning,
To
the
thick
sound
of
solitude.
And
I
saw
things
on
this
earth:
I
met
a
child
who
went
up
to
smell
the
moon
every
night.
And
I
saw
a
broken
cage
with
the
colourful
lights
swinging
in
its
four
corners,
And
a
ladder
set
next
to a
wooden
wall
That
love
was
stepping
up
to
the
heavens
from
its
side.
I
got
to
know
a
woman
crushing
light
in
her
blender,
Cooking
a
tender
dish
for
the
lunch.
I
saw
a
beggar
making
door
to
door
asking
for
canary’s
songs.
And
a
vagabond
praying
in
front
of a
half-eaten
melon
in
the
park.
I
saw
a
sheep
chewing
colourful
kites,
I
saw
a
donkey
cogitating
on
the
fate
of
the
grass,
And
I
saw
a
cow
so
stuffed
in
the
stable
of
advice.
I
saw
a
poet
who
addressed
the
flowers
with
“Your
Highness”.
Oh… I
read
a
book
its
words
made
from
pieces
of
crystal,
And
I
touched
a
paper
that
felt
like
the
cool
nights
of
spring,
I
went
to a
museum
that
had
no
tree
around,
I
went
to a
mosque
far
from
waterfalls,
And
I
saw
a
priest,
falling
sick,
holing
a
jar
full
of
queries.
Oh… and
I
saw
a
foal
carrying
bags
of
handwritten
essays,
And
a
camel
trekking
with
empty
baskets
of
travel
guides,
And
a
mystic
running
so
very
fast
to
catch
up
with
his
devotion
song.
I
watched
the
trains;
I
watched
a
train
carrying
containers
of
light,
I
watched
a
train
moving
with
weighty
trunks
of
dogma,
And
I
watched
another
leaving
with
void
boxes
of
politics,
And
I
came
across
a
train
transporting
seeds,
songs
and
sights
to a
remote
shore.
Yes,
I
saw
thing
on
this
earth:
A
plane
as
high
in
the
sky
as
letting
you
see
the
ground,
From
its
windows
The
dance
of
flowers
in
the
wind,
The
colourful
spots
on
the
butterflies
wings,
A
frog
playing
with
his
picture
in
the
pool,
A
fly
fleeing
alone
in a
forsaken
lane,
And
the
blazing
longing
of
sparrows
in
the
shade
of
willows,
And
the
maturity
of
the
golden
rays
of
sun
on
the
silken
back
of a
passer.
And
I
saw
a
doll
making
love
To
the
fading
shadow
of
the
dawn.
Oh… I
counted
the
stairs
reaching
to
the
forest
of
flesh,
To
the
pond
of
alcohol
that
has
fermented
fast,
To
the
rule
of
rose
that
has
gone
bad,
To
the
knowledge
of
the
arithmetic
of
life.
And
I
counted
the
stairs
up
to
the
roof
of
salvation,
Up
to
the
dais
of
lights.
And
my
mother
down
there
Was
washing
a
vase
in
the
dusty
memory
of
the
rivers.
And
you
could
see
the
town,
With
its
face
of
geometric
shapes
Of
stone,
of
cement
and
of
metal
bars.
And
plenty
of
buses
and
cars
with
no
pigeon
on
their
roof,
And
blooming
flowers
on
sale,
A
child
busy
writing
on
his
school’s
walls,
Another
hitting
his
father’s
prayer
book
with
a
piece
of
fruit,
And
a
goat
drinking
water
from
a
lake
in a
torn
geography
carte.
And
you
would
see
a
balcony,
with
restless
bras
hanging
on a
red
rope.
And
the
wheels
in
hope
of a
broken
van,
The
van
in
hope
of a
resting
man,
A
man
in
hope
of
an
end,
The
vain
hope
of
an
end.
From
the
heights
Love
was
visible,
waves
were
visible,
Snow
was
there,
friendship
as
well.
Words
were
standing
still
on
every
cross
waiting
for
the
redeemer
to
come...
The
water
was
there
with
spotless
pictures
in
its
heart.
Oh… and
the
shady
place
of
cells
in
the
veil
of
blood,
In
the
flood
of
life.
And
the
dawn
of
human
soul,
And
the
season
of
abundance
of
female,
And
at
the
end
in
the
overtaking
scent
of
solitude.
And
hope,
You
could
see
the
hope
Within
every
surge
of
the
breeze
From
the
mouth
of
summer.
And
the
journeys
we
took…
The
journey
of a
seed
to
the
height
of a
tree,
The
journey
of
vines
from
walls
to
windows,
The
journey
of
the
moon
to
the
still
water
of
the
pool,
And
the
blow
of
flowers
from
the
gloom
of
soil.
And
the
jump…
The
jump
of
events
over
the
sense
Over
the
sight,
far
above
the
reach
of
the
words.
And
the
battles
we
fought…
The
battle
of a
tear
with
the
desire
of
light,
The
battle
of
stairs
with
ascending
mass
of
the
sun,
The
battle
of
lonely
hours
with
the
advent
of
songs,
The
battle
of
pomegranate
with
teeth,
The
battle
of
empty
hands
with
the
weight
of
rosaries.
And
the
attacks
we
endured…
The
attack
of
the
mosques
on
the
ground
of
devotion,
The
attack
of
winds
on
the
innocence
of
soap
bubbles,
The
attack
of
butterflies
on
the
posters
on
the
walls,
The
attack
of
marching
band
of
crickets
On
the
construction
workers,
The
attack
of
pens
on
printed
sheets,
And
the
attack
of
words
on a
poet’s
jaws.
And
the
triumphs
we
rejoiced…
The
triumph
of a
poet
over
the
frozen
army
of a
century,
The
triumph
of a
passer
over
the
blocked
gates
of a
garden,
The
triumph
of
the
expansion
of
two
hands
over
a
shady
lane,
The
triumph
of
four
horses
made
of
sticks
Over
metallic
face
of a
town,
The
triumph
of
two
dolls
and
three
balls
Over
the
blankness
of
the
New
Year’s
Eve.
And
the
murders
witnessed…
The
murder
of a
toy
on
the
revolted
sheets
of a
bed,
The
murder
of a
tale
by
the
heavy
mass
of a
nap,
The
murder
of
despair
by
the
dawn
of a
song,
The
murder
of
the
moonlight
by
the
blazing
neon's,
The
murder
of a
willow
over
the
words
of
the
mayor,
The
murder
of a
poet
by
the
thorns
of a
rose.
And
all
that
is
on
the
earth
was
visible:
The
order
was
hiking
in
Greece,
The
owls
were
singing
on
the
tower
of
Babel,
The
wind,
spinning
in
Khyber
Was
pushing
the
sands
to
the
East,
On a
peaceful
lake
a
sailboat
was
carrying
freshly
cut
flowers
to
the
North,
And
in
Banaras
an
eternal
light
was
burning
above
every
door.
I
saw
people,
I
saw
towns,
I
saw
meadows,
peaks,
mountains,
The
light
and
the
dark;
I
saw
the
plants
in
the
light,
And
I
saw
them
again
in
the
dark.
I
saw
the
beasts
in
the
light,
And
I
saw
them
again
in
the
dark.
And
I
saw
men
moving
from
the
light
to
the
dark,
And
moving
from
dark
to
the
instance
of
lights.
I am
from
Kashan,
But
my
town
is
not
Kashan.
My
town
got
lost
some
day.
And
I
tasked,
In
fever
of
thrill,
with
fervour
of
will
To
make
myself
an
adobe
abode
Past
the
vast
province
of
night.
And
in
this
lodging,
How
close
I am
to
the
moist
anonymity
of
the
moss!
I
hear
the
breathings
of
the
soil,
the
heartbeat
of
the
stones.
I
hear
the
noise
of
night
when
it
falls
off
from
the
leaves.
And
I
hear
the
sharp
cry
of
the
day,
Coughing
right
behind
the
trees.
I
hear,
I
hear!
And
I
hear
the
footsteps
of
water
from
every
crack
of
rocks,
And
I
hear
the
stream
of
swallows
over
the
roof
of
the
clouds,
And
the
clear
calls
of
solitude
in
every
budging
of
the
doors.
And
oh… I
hear
love
changing
her
skin,
Under
the
weakening
light
of
the
moon,
And
I
hear
the
urging
words
of
the
wings
for
flight.
And
I
can
listen
to
the
cry
of
remorse
That
cracks
under
the
expansion
of
soul.
And
I
listen
to
the
chant
of
blood
flowing
in
the
flowers’
veins,
And
the
heartbeat
of
the
sun
next
to
the
nest
of
doves,
And
also
the
pounds
of
night
on
the
dawn
of
the
winter.
I
can
hear
the
song
of
my
life,
The
journey
of
oleanders
in
the
rivers
of
mind,
The
vague
figure
of
the
truth
in
the
horizons
of
eyes,
The
soft
sound
of
females
flying
over
the
clouds,
And
the
footsteps
of
faith
in
the
lone
lane
of
joy,
And
the
song
of
rain
played
on
the
eyelids
of
love,
Played
on
the
sad
days
of
youth,
On
the
bleeding
heart
of
pomegranates.
And
I
listen,
I
listen
to
the
chant
of
fleeting
delights,
of
passing
beauties
To
the
chant
of
memories
set
in
the
hands
of
the
wind…
I
feel
so
close
to
the
first
nights
of
the
earth,
I
take
the
pulse
of
the
flowers.
Oh… I
am
so
familiar
with
the
moist
fate
of
water,
And
with
the
green
habit
of
trees.
My
soul
flows
in
the
direction
of
rebirth
of
matter,
Oh…
my
soul
is
so
young.
My
soul
sometimes
gets
so
excited
that
it
coughs.
My
soul
has
nothing
left
to
do,
So
it
counts
the
drops
of
rain,
the
cracks
of
walls.
My
soul
sometimes
exists
as
intensely
as
stones
In
an
ancient
lane.
I
have
never
come
across
two
pines
in
fight,
And
I
have
never
seen
a
willow
Selling
its
shielding
arms
to
the
earth.
And
the
elm-tree
is
setting
free
of
charge
The
cool
space
within
its
leaves
for
the
crows.
Wherever
there
is a
leave,
I
feel
inspired,
I
feel
alive.
The
thorns
of
wild
flowers
have
bathed
me
In
their
dews
of
absolute
life.
Like
the
wings
of
the
butterflies,
I
know
the
weight
of
sunrise.
Like
a
flower
in
the
wind,
I
can
hear
the
melody
of
growth.
Oh… like
a
basket
heavy
with
fruits,
I
spin
in
the
fever
of
arrival.
I am
like
an
empty
bar
at
the
borders
of
boredom.
And
like
an
edifice
off
the
shore,
I
stand
watching
the
eternal
appeal
of
the
heavens
For
the
revolting
crowd
of
water.
And
I
aspire
in
my
heart
For
so
many
suns,
so
many
ties,
And
the
feel
of
reaching
to
the
infinity.
I
can
be
content
with
a
bite
of
apple.
I
can
be
content
with
the
perfume
of
mint,
I am
content
with
the
light
of
mirrors,
And
with
only
one
honest
friend.
I do
not
laugh
at
the
blast
of
balls,
I do
not
laugh
if a
sage
talks
about
Dividing
the
moon
into
halves.
I
recognise
the
sound
of
the
friction
of
quails’
wings,
I
recognise
the
footsteps
of
goats
and
deer,
I
know
so
well
where
the
clusters
of
rhubarb
can
grow,
And
when
partridge
is
about
to
arrive,
And
when
the
eagle
may
die.
I
know
of
the
dreams
of
deserts
Of
the
bright
face
of
the
moon.
I
know
of
the
feel
of
death
in
the
branch
of
yearning,
And
the
sense
of
delight
in
the
long
stem
of
love.
Life
is a
pleasant
rite.
Life
is
covered
by
feathers
and
wings,
Growing
as
vast
as
the
silhouette
of
death.
Life
has
leaps
as
high
as
the
summit
of
love.
Life
is
really
not
something
that
one
can
forget
On
the
obscure
shelf
of
habits.
Life
is a
grasping
hand
that
picks,
Life
is
the
taste
of
the
first
harvest
of
figs
In
the
bitter
mouth
of
summer.
Life
is
the
depth
of
trees
in
the
eyes
of
insects,
Life
is
the
adventure
of a
moth
in
the
darkened
air,
Life
is
the
strange
sense
of a
migrating
bird.
Life
is a
train’s
siren
Piercing
into
the
dreams
of a
bridge.
Life
is
seeing
the
glow
of a
garden
From
a
barred
window
in a
flight.
Life
is
the
news
of
landing
on
the
lonesome
moon,
Life
is
the
thought
of
smelling
flowers
On
the
soil
of
another
sphere.
Life
is
washing
a
stained
vase.
Life
is
finding
a
blemished
coin
on
the
way,
Life
is
the
square
root
of
mirrors,
Life
is a
flower
to
the
power
of
infinity,
Life
is
the
product
of
earth
and
the
pounds
of
our
hearts,
Life
is
the
simple
geometry
of
breathing.
Wherever
I
live,
it
does
not
matter,
I'll
always
own
the
sky,
I'll
always
own
the
window
and
the
sky,
Love
and
light,
earth
and
water.
So
who
cares
if
sometimes
the
leaves
of
solitude
May
grow
all
around?
I do
not
understand
Why
they
say
that
horse
is
noble,
And
doves
are
gentle,
And
why
nobody
keeps
a
crow
in a
cage,
And
why
rose
is
the
most
sought-after
flower?
I
washed
my
eyes,
I
see
otherwise.
And
I
must
wash
the
words,
Words
should
be
the
mere
sense
of
the
wind,
The
true
essence
of
the
rain.
And
we
must
close
umbrellas,
We
must
stay
under
the
stroke
of
drops
of
rain.
And
we
must
take,
all
together,
The
mind,
the
memory
and
the
heart
To
the
rite
of
descending
water.
And
we
must
make
friends
under
this
chaste
shower,
And
may
we
look
for
love
under
the
downpour
of
water,
And
may
we
make
love
there,
And
I
know
we
can
plant
lilies,
We
can
sing
elegies,
We
can
write
poetry,
With
its
blue
rhyme.
Yes,
we
must
play
the
game
of
life
in
the
rain.
Life
is
being
endlessly
dampened,
Life
is
bathing
in
the
lake
of
present.
Let’s
get
undressed,
I
hear
the
song
of
streams,
The
water
is
so
close-by!
And
let’s
savour
the
birth
of
lights,
Let’s
slip
into
the
deer’s
absolute
night,
Let’s
weigh
the
silent
sleep
of
the
village,
Let’s
learn
the
warmth
of
nest
of
pelicans,
And
let’s
not
step
on
the
rules
of
moss,
And
let’s
still
open
our
mouth
Whenever
we
encounter
the
beauty
of
the
full
moon.
And
we
must
not
blame
night
for
the
fatigue
of
lights,
And
may
we
understand
the
thought
of
glow-worms
About
the
green
confines.
May
we
arrive
with
hands
holing
empty
baskets,
And
pick
our
share
of
brightened
greens,
glowing
reds
and
shining
lights.
And
may
we
enjoy
bread
and
cheese
every
morning,
While
we
are
planting
trees
within
our
words,
our
greetings,
And
may
we
be
able
to
still
throw
the
seed
of
silence
On
the
ground
of
talks,
And
walk
away.
And
may
we
not
read
the
books
that
do
not
let
the
breeze
to
come
in,
And
may
we
not
read
the
notes
that
do
not
let
the
dews
to
stay
within,
And
may
we
not
read
the
tomes
that
set
their
words
on
the
two
dimensions
of
deceit.
And
why
would
we
ask
the
flies
to
leave
the
nature
alone?
Why
would
we
ask
the
wolves
to
drop
out
of
the
sight?
And
why
would
we
be
sure
that
worms
did
not
make
any
difference
in
our
lives.
And
may
we
believe
that
without
death
We
could
be
lost
in
an
eternal
quest.
And
let
me
tell
you,
The
reason
of
flight
is
set
on
the
shoulders
of
lights,
And
the
coral
is
born
over
the
prayerful
dreams
of
the
seas.
And
let
me
tell
you
that
if
we
would
not
ask
where
we
were
We
could always
sense
the
fresh
perfume
of
hyacinths
by
our
feet.
And
we
can
forget
about
searching
the
fountain
of
fortune,
And
we
can
never
question
Why
the
heart
of
truth
is
coloured
with
deep
blue.
And
we
can
forget
what
the
fathers
of
our
fathers
have
done.
As I
think
that
behind
our
steps
there
will
not
be
life,
And
behind
our
steps
the
birds
no
more
sing,
And
behind
our
steps
the
breeze
stands
still,
And
behind
our
steps
the
windows
are
closed,
The
pines
are
asleep.
Behind
our
steps
the
sands
sit
on
the
face
of
all
windmills.
Yes,
what
is
behind
is
the
fatigue
of
the
past,
And
there
the
memory
of
waves
Land
in
the
closing
shells
of
sloth.
I
would
walk
straight
till
the
seas
And
I
would
give
away
my
net
to
the
hands
of
waves.
And
I
would
try
to
catch
the
freshness
of
the
blues
in
return.
And
I
would
pick
a
small
stone
from
the
shore,
And
I
would
try
to
grasp
the
grey
weight
of
reality.
And
let’s
not
blame
the
moon
if
we
have
a
burning
fever.
Sometimes
in
fever
I
saw
that
the
moon
steps
down,
And
hands
can
reach
the
gates
of
heavens,
And
the
canary
sing
better.
And
when
I
had
a
wound
on
my
feet
I
learned
more
About
the
texture
of
the
soil.
And
when
I
was
sick
I
felt
the
expansion
of
flowers
around
my
bed,
And
the
thickening
of
oranges
And
the
widening
span
of
the
lightened
torch.
And
let’s
not
fear
death,
Death
is
not
the
end
point
of a
dove's
flight,
Death
is
not
the
reversal
of
the
journey
of a
moth,
Death
flows
in
the
mind
of
acacias,
Death
lives
behind
the
peaceful
shell
of
our
thoughts,
Death
talks
about
the
dawn
for
the
spirit
of
the
darkened
town,
Death
may
be
tasted
along
a
ripe
cluster
of
grape,
Death
can
be
sung
in a
soulful
voice.
And
death
is
behind
the
striking
beauty
of
the
butterflies,
Death
is
picking
mint
in
the
garden
just
close-by,
Death
may
be
drinking
vodka
In a
bar
two
blocks
away
your
house,
And
at
time
it
is
sitting
staring
at
us
with
frowning
eyes.
And
we
fill
our
lungs
with
his
grey
breath.
And
I
would
not
close
the
door
on
the
face
of
fate
If I
hear
a
strange
noise
from
behind
the
blinds.
Let’s
pull
the
shades
away,
And
expose
the
sense
to
the
invasion
of
breeze,
light
and
air,
And
set
the
wits
free
to
sit
wherever
it
wants,
And
allow
the
instincts
to
play,
even
barefoot,
Along
the
swift
course
of
seasons,
along
the
route,
And
permit
the
solitude
to
sing
its
song,
to
write
it
tale,
To
wander
pointlessly
around.
Oh… let
us
be
just
simple,
Let
us
be
simple
in
the
bank
and
in
the
park.
We
may
not
get
to
unearth
the
mystery
of
The
Rose,
I
suspect
we
can…
But
we
may
always
stream
into
the
charm
of
Rose.
Let
us
at
least
camp
within
the
consciousness
of
the
sense
And
wash
our
hands
in
the
green
truth
of
the
leaves
And
walk
towards
the
certainty
of
the
stones.
And
then,
Let
us
every
sunrise
repaint
for
us
the
picture
of
rebirth
And
let
us
only
watch
the
flight
of
birds
In
the
sky
of
our
minds
Over
the
perception
of
space,
Over
the colour
of
time,
Over
the
beats
of
sound.
Let
us
keep
wide
open
windows!
And
let
us
invite
the
sky
to
sit
in
every
blank
space
And
between
our
words.
And
then
let
us
breathe
the
air
of
eternity,
In
the
heart
of
silent
deserts’
serenity.
And
swim
with
the
migrating
birds
In
the
wisdom
of
infinity.
Let
us
sometimes
forget
about
the
terms,
Forget
about
the
words
And
still
call
the
clouds,
call
the
willows
and
the
pines
And
summer
and
fall
With
their
names.
Let
us
just
see
And
follows
the
moist
Footsteps
of
Water
To
the
roots
of
love.
And
perhaps
we
are
only
meant
to
Within
the
white
lilies
of
snow
And
the
flaming
red
of
the
years
Run
after
the
verse
of
the
truth.
