A few hints of agedness embellish my countenance.
Lichen grows, resembling inner tides gushing out of my heart.
Seeing the way of world, being fickle in relationship,
I stand up and out sunny, to reduce the frenzy clawing of the devil
How gentle and wonderful is the starry sky
Thinking of the outpour of crudeness and masculinity from foliage,
and the unconnected sensual affection from an oil-painting,
I wish to be deep in green, to be like the first ray of morning sun, over the whole of my life.
The water of lake, crispy and chilly,
gazes afar at the rising sun. Green grasses, hanging low
don’t care about
water rolling onto the shore, foaming and fuming, ricocheting in the valley.
As if, I picked up the sturdiness of the rocks, from rippling book leaves.
The rustle of loose sleeves, bounced out of the Republic, is like wind,
like poetry, like my flipping through the history of gods, soughing line by line.