The Blog of Laughter and Forgetting

A few green leaves towards the sun Beside stands in own shade The old tree… One gets from the deep purple Age, as it becomes sonorous Still rains, desires bathing in full At night the moonlight pours Winds go by along the valley Who laughs? And the soul Runs in white horses’ spirit A lost sense or some organ Finally felt deep within.

Those who went down In a flash turned to statue If a light pierce through the cloud, may find Rain falls down, on black hazy faces…frozen Comes sharp whistle, perhaps snake Or lost in yellow woods No use to stand down before the roots Lights left downwards long ago But still it calls, as the earthworm moves slowly Butterflies come once a day One sees the down-going of mass and energy Why, then so much of light Why then the flashes? As the fish caught jumps up and down to reflect the silver blaze There is waste of sublime verbs and nouns that longs for lithographed.