MUSIC OF SILK AND FLUTES AT THE TRANSITION STORM

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Swift wind, heaven high, summer’s cry of grief
The Golden sky’s water has fallen, autumn clouds
Approach, like a morning scene good and fine
The pear tree on the hill has little fed flowers
Seasons stir an endless shed of leaves
Summer frustrating into Autumn, whitening temples
Etched into temporary memory
For everything is temporary, I climb
The terrace alone, to abandon my cup
Of cloudy wine, the winds surge on
Many new ghosts cry to me, soon
The snow will dance in the whirling wind
To many places, communication will be broken
I will find myself in music such as only go to
The Heavens above, I will be not heard
And everything we spoke about last
Night under the moon will be forever not recorded
Through the gates I slowly walk to the end.

19 thoughts on “MUSIC OF SILK AND FLUTES AT THE TRANSITION STORM

    • I find my drifting style often does leave many questions, it’s not really intention more just a reflection of my open-ended right hemisphere dominant cerebral cortex 😛

      Thanks Kenny, your comments are always so thoughtful.

    • Really excellent comment, that’s the beauty of being at the end – all the weight is lifted. The continual realization of the temporary nature of life is perhaps a kind of Nirvana…

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