Remembering things is challenging~
the garbage of the self; playing piano;
tears like blood drops, in the yelling rain.
The sound is only the perception of the brain~
twisted vibration for its own conversion.
The raindrops fall on all the free flowers.
The mistral cannot blow the sufferings or feelings.
A falling petal can tint a tone poem; secret graves,
gravely hidden errors, erratic glaciers,
cloudy windows, and homeless workers;
to gaze at the coming sun on gloomy mornings;
a mental eye having a bias against heaven; hail.
A dance of raindrops in the light and fireworks in the night;
rhythmic echoes. The blowing wind can bust the blue and
downhearted life up in chaos; the harsh light of the wars;
plants and animals bleeding and kneeling;
folks as living rocks, rockeries in gardens; to have
a sense of belonging and a language of longing;
the women in the temples singing holy hymns;
listening to their own voices.
The winds and the spirits are inconspicuous;
stillness, strength. Heaven is higher than the rain.
The noise made by a jet fighter can speed up
the breaking windows, the withering flowers,
the altering dreams, and the crumbling churches.
This noise can resemble the mistral; eons of weathering.
In the mist, the unfleshly souls climb up
the serene mountains before metamorphosing.
