Praiseworthy is the raven
perched atop the tower.
It stands alone, away from a life
that runs as smoothly as a river.
The raven could dive and avoid
the icy gales that pull at its feathers, but
the raven chooses otherwise.
It never forgets what it means
to stand proud.
The raven is no crow;
it does not roost in company.
It never succumbs to even waters,
never has its color washed away.
The raven is no dove.
It is truth.
Try to find
the god in the stone,
and the stone will disappoint
when it crumbles.
Try to forget
the god in the stone,
and it is oneself
that will crumble and disappoint.
The stone is the stone,
the god is the god,
and Man is the mist in the air;
he overreaches and freezes—
falls
and melts in the warmth.
Sprawled on a grassy field
The world turns despite my stillness
Clouds drift across these eyes
A flock of birds
gathers, then fractures
Patterns in the sky
The heart is never frozen
Change comes like
bird droppings—
One can only laugh in life.
On the children,
rain falls like jewels.
They drink each drop,
hands whipping wet snakes,
fingers clutching claws.
Dry has been the month—
Such things come once in a while,
and leave very soon.
Drink now, children—Drink!
Soak the beads into the folds,
into the creases of your lips.
This is the hour!
This is!
This.