The echo of life, the sound of creation,
The howl of winds in canyons of faith
Depend on greatness beyond human hands.
.
From the inches of rain to the floods of pain
Grow on the branch of life that emerges from
Endless seeds of hate for love of all desires
In a chest of a human over these times.
.
Endless tears and grief on aging of times,
Hopes die as the sun rises on the flat land
Waving and smiling with dead sense of fear
As it descends down the deep sea of fiction
The aging man changes to a ghost of dust.
.
Three rocks climbing up a slope converse together.
One says : I feel we are climbing downwards.
Another says : Do me a favor, this is flat.
It is never the same to us, the third says.
Huge snow balls race west to melt and to rest.
Small mounts, narrow seas, and shadows of blue;
Shades of gray, waves of green with purple tips,
Thin masses of tented white, and holes of black
Appear like a distinctive mix of a sphere
Floating deep throughout the vast space.
It bursts and wipes it all; lands and waters.
We're then spirits; the old material shatters.
Where we reside, to me it sure matters.