should I be allowed to witness such random movement,
for such vision becomes the object of the eye's fascination,
for look at the the tiresome living,
such fine examples of perfecting disorder!
But here among these solitary trees,
where i sleep beneath their softening spells,
of their illusive robes and perfumes,
for in this serenity of simply sitting and living here,
to be enbalmed in the fortress of the earth,
how could i but wish to rest within this aging tomb,
than return to my empty and rising coffin in the sky,
and to die with those blank and meaningless memories,
unfreezing in the very fear of death.
but just like voiceless soldiers we live and drive the dogs away,
defending our ever patient deathbeds for just a moment longer,
returning every mortal insult with a cold face,
showing nothing but defiance in the face of the ugly truth.
but cant you see the trees growing without pausing to notice you?
do they seek your intervention to blossom into beauty?
have you not realized that your very desire to touch corrupts beauty?
but it is such a waste of time,to complain,to harass the nature of men,
like an old wife nagging the timeless deeds of certain stupidity,
and nothing ever really changes,even that is for certain.
still the trees are aging,
growing old before the mirrors of the sky and sea,
the moss covering the earth and stone,
as soft carpets for the warm feet that tip toe across,
and living has become a moment of the past,
allowing the dying to breathe in bliss,
the present,the future,
for see how far words can foretell the art of living.
this is not goodbye,
this is an arriving after so many before,
this living is dying,
in this aging tomb,
where i dream of still nights,
where the silence kills the slumber,
where the stars follow the sun and moon,
and these days are just memories running away.
