to thunder, the pond swells
in summer, it diminishes
when its streams and brooks die
a thousand plants-
and a hundred fish-
rot and swelter in it
to rain, it lives and breathes
the ebb and flow of raindrops
when from its banks break
a thousand droplets-
a hundred streams-
blooms in its spirit
men wait not for the rain,
nor does he diminish in heat
in his soul contained to find,
a great typhoon-
angered by his passion,
calmed when he sulks
in each awaits catastrophe,
one as different, none the same-
all as fated to start as one
feel the wind, heat, and rain
feel it now, again and again
