Reader, little light led me astray,
New trees could laugh a while,
Then no path would shrink,
Each thought was brewed amiss,
Now I saw the cool bark moss grow,
Written on its shape, lines of beau,
I kid you not how beautiful the path,
Once I saw the trees fall, the river dry,
All I saw were ruins of cities, and old folk,
They spoke of memories past, then none;
I am young - I saw nothing but wild thought,
Speaking whereof I stand, it was ruins,
Then each bitter thought turned sweet,
When each sweet laid salt on tracks behind,
Through solemn sorrow sought, water dispelled,
Now I seek the water my path be cleared,
Whence each thought current be dispelled,
Since my thoughts run dry, I give the art,
Whom I knew so well, this I sing loud,
When none looks awry, I'm the dot sewn,
On a fabric of gold, a black dot on marble,
The lake becomes me, and all rivers fall.
%d bloggers like this: