This is the truth of suffering-     when something as a feather falls as fast as a lightning strike to the ground-     and you see the melancholic burns in the grass slither, slip into every weary heart.

This is the truth,
of the cause
of suffering, to watch the world die, the flowers grow to be eaten, stomped on, caressed or simply plucked and thrown away.

This is the truth of the end of suffering, and the path that leads towards it, with all its twists and turns.

All of it's a plague,
dripping from a dagger,
or a thief in the dead of night,
exalted in the moonlight.