Whomever doesn’t beleieve of the immortality
Of the soul has not seen a green forest of jade
Whomever has not felt the hopelessness of a love
Child, the faint whispers of the blue night,
Has only a whisp of inkling…
But those who hallucinated a feverish cloud blowing in the everlasting day somewhere far away sometime in the geat timeless now, has understood.
Every little thing.
Matters. Every single little thing, your freckle on the right cheek,
The bamboo cutting the water, in springtime,
Wow: it’s so maddening the nut cannot be cracked,
And the gift not allowed,
To bind today with tomorrow!
Don’t you feel it wanting It to aspire upwards,
Where from which, what else remains but to the
Service, from where no one comes or goes,
You look so familiar maybe in another life perhaps?
