​
​”What will you be in the future?”
​You asked me.
​
​”A man, a poet”
​I answered.
​
​Right up until the darkness
​and the wind come upon
​my door, I thought.
​
​But, I did not tell you
​about the end.

​I did not want us to
​return to all that.

Thin ice.
A new term begins.
Snow falls and piles
up on empty streets.

In some places
a hailstone storm held.
What speaks
is a caged bird.

Singing a new song,
faintly white.
But, not dimmed
by the advancing clouds.

On a hot summer day.
Climbing the steep steps
to the old temple.
I think to myself.
The years have not been wasted.
And there are still eyes
I have to look into.
To know something
of how to walk that final path.

​
On the streets
​a world of rain.
Spring, summer
autumn and winter.
It is all the same – rain.

Within every drop
a temple of light.
A struggle washed away.
Again, and then again.
And still the light does not dim.
​

​A lone poet
​came to walk.
​Looking for nothing
​more than solitude.
​Each step, life cutting.
​The moon and the
​sun leaking out.
​There is no turning back.

Every day,
ten thousand things
occupy my mind.
I try and stop.
But the streets
and the sorrow
are still there.
Fanned by the heart
alone, too many
moons have been lost.
So, my mind –
working endlessly
produces a sense of peace.
I watch myself
in the world and show
that everything has passed.
Maybe, one day – I will reach
a place where heaven
and hell cease.
Reflecting a certain end
without the clouds.
​

A floating island in my dream.
Ten thousand miles or more –
I walked to see you.
The neighbourhood has changed.
Barbed wire, neon lights and
drunken men singing songs
from the old days.
Litter the streets.
I cannot see your face.
Only the memories hold the dream.
Accepting that I will
not see you again.
I hold your hand tight
until peacetime comes.
And the drunken men
finally go back home.

Laughter or tears.
Sun or moon.
Haters or lovers.
Sky or river.
I meet them all each day.
I don’t ask them to be.
I don’t ask them to go away.
Some people see it all too late.
I see it in every step I walk
and my heart and soul follow.
Offering endearments
along the way.
That sometimes fall
upon the flowers.
​

Now appearing, then disappearing.
I watch the emotion in my heart.
Sometimes, I wish there was
somebody who understands.
Especially important things.
But being alone it is much easier
to look deep inside myself.
And contemplate the hidden heart.

I sit in cafes,
watching and writing.
Someday I’ll be dead,
but at least I will leave
something behind.
Most of us in the cafes
pretend not to look at each other.
Except when some beautiful
people arrive, then it is
more difficult not to look.
In this place there are
many beautiful people.
And many more idle worshippers.
Sometimes, I sit by the window
in honour of some poet
who died years ago.
But nobody cares about
dead poets these days.
So, I just write, drink my coffee
and move on – waiting for
new words to come.
​