Wind of the season
cold or warm
interpreting the changes
of time
with temperatures
leaves
falling and growing
growing then falling
radiating the glitter of life
with colors
swallows
going south and north
coursing south
returning north
expressing a kind of spirit
with endlessness
crossing
the threshold
of the season
with gentleness.

An eagle flew away
coldness sprinkled
on the height of his flying
the holy ice and snow of the peak
the sound of wings across the crevice
the pilgrimage route is
forever in his heart
the eternal light
is his eyesight
the deserted altitude
the empty skies
this temptation
of solitude
the earth with its gravitational force
opens up the door of fate
once again.

Lines
of mountain spring
converge into a brook
passing through clouds
through the evening mist
crossing the jungle
crossing an entwinement of
flowers and vines.

Bluestone
speeding like wind
laughter
frozen in time
episodes of warmth
aftertaste like north
it's the very simple
and elegant steps
of bluestone.

Waves hitting rocks
line struggling to escape the plane
broken-shaped brightness
breaking the jump of the line
like the fish of time
two dark blue seas
one still life
one billow
bright waves sparkling
shining
flowing into quiet meditation
of the sea
the musing sea
quietly listening to the light
on the ladder of eyelash
a white fish leaps out of the fissure
it's the broken waves
a chaotic weave of still life and animal
a flower of introspection blooms
in a collection of green
then the blues of rain
the petals of snow
the bone of ice
the white of frost within the wood wind
crashed the light
floating on paper
it's past midnight.

Ah, Mediocrity, you pernicious and insidious killer!
You live through the Good Enough, the So-and-So.
You make dull the genius; a philistine of the sinner!
You slow the clock to maintain the status quo!
No matter what I do or how I try, you are always there,
Conniving in the dark, outside my imagination.
A villain of the artist indeed! A true nightmare!
The perpetual source of my mind's sedation.
Perhaps it is not you that is the real culprit?
Perhaps it is the ones that love you, that adore you?
I have indulged you before, ashamed I am to admit,
Your raison d'etre is profitable, surely tried and true.
But I have greater aims than you! It is Heaven I strive for!
The mountain that I climb has no place for a *****.

In a boring afternoon
intrigued by a few songs of birds
clear and bright sound
telling of
the gift of nature
the subtlety of the world
in such a weather
the appealing sound is just
the cure
for dullness.

If the clock
of time
is still in me
i will walk
into the distance
interpret its light
and luster
construe its ordinary
parcels
find an ordinary pastille
of word
sit on the tip of the hour hand
thinking
string a rosary with its thread
of time
write to the mountains
and rivers
of the four seasons
to happy days and happy people
to the ordinariness
of time.

Gray hair is the scalar of the fleeting time
eyes
are the representation
of all things
the mind
is the heavenly body that
visits the universe
everyday
thought is
the direction
shining
bright.

Venus de Milo
is,
a myth
who'd lost her arms,
Pushkin,
the 19th century's fall
of the sun,
the nights engulfing
the stars,
while the stars,
illuminating
the night,
the sounds of piano,
of Beethoven,
piercing the sky,
they are,
stars
that never fall.