The blossoming of a flower
is not the end-all of things,
a day will come when someone will pluck it
to place it somewhere only he knows.
It seems perfectly worthwhile for us
to guard it, staying hidden somewhere,
or else no one will ever know
when this stealer of flowers
would come in stealth
to complete his mission.
For plucking a flower
is not such an arduous task
nor is it such a priceless object
that we'd worry about it so much.
Whatever you might say,
there is some mystery
behind the plucking of a flower,
and who can deny the twofold role
that exists between the flower's blooming
and its dropping to earth?
It's unbecoming to keep a watch
for the flower to bloom,
for who can tell the moment of flowering?
Can one say
that it will rain for certain
when clouds spread across the sky?
It's not easy to assert
there is a last word for everything.
Simply raise both your palms upward,
may be you'll find a flower
falling from somewhere.
The tree sifts the wind with its clutch.
The wind leafs in someone's ribs.
A skeleton lies at close range.
Dogs and jackals hold a mass dinner
on your bones.
The wind remains.Dogs and vultures
remain. A corpse lies abandoned.
Whose it is ? Maybe some cow or ox.
In the distant bamboo grove rattles
the windthe ruffian that beats down
The hunter shot a bird dead with
his gun.Men were coming along the way.
The gushing blood dried up on the dead bird's
body.Who dried it up?
It is the wind.