What is in the vague whisper of the water, what is in the
charming murmur of the leaf, what is in
the play of that white cloud
on this long calm water
that takes you to the depths of the imagination, what is in the
silent solitude of the pigeons, what is the
wave in the futile effort,
in the laughter of the cup
that you look at for several hours in
amazement,
not at the cloud,
not at the water,
not at
the fog leaf, at this long calm water,
not at this silent solitude. Pigeons,
not to this burning fire, but to the cup,
I do not think about this sentence, I hear the
prayers of the trees at dawn, the
dancing of the fragrance of ice flowers with the wind
, the pure breath of the anemone in the chest of the mountain, the conversation of the swallows
with the morning
, the enduring hatred of existence in the wheat field
, the circulation of color and freshness in the cheeks of
the flowers
,
I do not think of this sentence
, I think of you
, O all-encompassing.
I think of you all the time, everywhere, I think
of you, no matter where I am, you know, only you know, you
come, stay with me, stay alone, stay with me, stay with me, stay in the
moonlight, in the darkness of the nights, you laugh,
I sacrifice you for you, instead of all the flowers, you laugh,
now this is me, who has fallen at your feet, take a
string from that long hair
,
you tie
it up. Ask for
the answer to the swallows, you tell
the story of the cloud of air, you stay
with me, you are alone, you
are in the heart of Sagar, you boil,
I have this one breath left from the sip of my soul,
you drink the last sip of this empty cup.
