​
​Inside me.
A poet.
A traveller.
A temple here.
A coffee cafe there.
And the blue skies
of spring soon to come.
Leaving everything
in each footstep.
I go on my way.

​And with every step.
The sky, the river
and the people give rest.
From the dark winds
that come my way.
From time to time.

In front of the lake.
The ground fresh
and spontaneous.
A path took me back.
Happiness mixed
with sadness.
Some days of rotting windows.
Other days, stalks of
spring mornings.
Throughout all of this
there was, like now
authentic beauty.
To keep me moving on.
​

There have been days of
thorny vines and extreme sorrow.
When life seemed just a
fortress of brute cages.

But somehow, I remained
a man,
a poet,
a teacher,
a lover of life.
No cause of why,
it just seemed the way.
To keep myself
immune from dying
within myself.

​

We run towards the same streets.
None is more correct than another.
Formed by love and the
darkness of a deep forest.

Old and youth, there is
always a goodness
in the human spirit.
So madly, it is all around me.

If you let it, it will wrap
you in silence and coloured light.
And if you don’t, the appearance
will always leave a bitter tinge.

​

At sunset
and when
the moon rises.
My mind wanders
to the grey skies
from another place.
Towards the cold
winds of change.
And the faces of
the people I have lost.
​

​
​The sky seems to be
​filled with spring.
​Everything has been prepared.
​The sunshine is chasing me.
​But I stop and stand my ground.
​Scattering all the words I have.
​With my eyes wide open.

We are all creative
and beautiful in speech.
Yet, somehow tied
to a certain nature.
Eventually, this kills
all that is loved.
Like a river cut off
from its source –
the river eventually dies.
All the more reason
to hear the music
of life and death.
To follow an empty path.
To be measured in my steps.
To show kindness
to all living things.
Yet, still bearing the marks
of a wandering poet.

Sometimes, shadows
assume shapes.
It’s no wonder life
goes pear-shaped
from time to time.
They seem to gather
together, plotting
and conspiring.
And gossip most
of the time.

But they are no more
than a keepsake, to be
discarded with a
smile on my face.
Soaked up by new
moments of life and love
in every step I take.
Then, I am able to know
what is real and what is not.

Sometimes I walk
and watch the rain fall.
Wondering how many
more smiles do I have
left to give in this lifetime?
I think I will grow old
on the stillness of Zen.
Afterall, there is nothing is
better than being free.