when the silver moonstream makes a lake of limitless plain,
I spread the sails of my thoughts in the path of the wind.
when no sound rises from the reed beds deep in the ponds,
I joyously voice my bright hope like a sunshaft.
when songs are sung of hopelessness,
I await from far off the sun's lip scorching
warmly kissing the neighbor's rooftop.
when a sorrow congeals in the cold of the garden,
I listen for the death coughs in the groan-rattle of my decaying