An old boy's philosophy, ambles up
arrow in one hand,
strung bow in the other…
Aim at nothing,
you cannot miss.
I watch this idea, nothing more, no thing,
nock the shaft, draw back the bow,
not as I expected, not
as I saw ahead, not
aiming at the skies, outmost limit…
this arrow aimed at me.
Or was it you?
Mustabin you, or nothing, as intended,
I was aiming at nothing,
to prove I could still hit it as easily as once,
when I was young,
and at the brink… of next, laughing
The joy of an outlet, for a dammed river, desert river, wide, and mostly dry
but for these thousand year winters that are so rare...