Before first light,
I slip away from the crowded square
and climb the worn steps of forgotten heights.
But the season’s breath is spent,
and I long for shelter again.

The fruitless limbs stand bare,
their burden shed,
and silent weavers of days grow slow beneath fading skies.
These Buds have hardened to shells,
yet delicate wings of night birds still flutter by.

The softened rain halts,
then returns in sudden pulsing waves;
a narrow stream runs straight,
then winds blow all beyond sight.
The winding trail stretches endless but so does the narrow,
and wild blooms of season fill the shallowed grove.

Two birds’ mirrored shapes break the still water;
fresh shoots press upward through softened earth.
The land swells and dips like a restless sigh;
scattered dwellings mark the scattered lives.

From ages past until now,
our paths echo the same quiet truths.
My life is full,
my nights quiet undisturbed
what more could I or my soul seek?

My work is humble,
a small flame flickering,
and yet I fret for the emptiness beneath the surface.
In these distant valleys,
the heavy air weighs on me;
I lie spent, too weary to lift my gaze.

Sickness and want crowd all sides;
These fragile lives drift like the fog at morning
These clouds gather dense and dark;
rolls of thunder shake the distant hills waiting to be struck by lightning.

Water spills in sudden torrents from broken eaves;
crickets and night singers weave their ceaseless duet.
The fiery reign of high summer is driven back
by relentless storms from heavy skies.

The fresh, cool breath of rain revives my spirit,
and I wade through shallows to reach ancient stone walls.
I beckon the wind’s gentle spirit to dance
to swirl her robes in step with forgotten songs.

Raindrops swell my cup,
and countless sips cleanse the weight of sorrow.

Yet still I know this cannot last,
for my hollow home chills like the fading year.
Thoughts rise fierce and sharp within my mind,
and restless feelings thread through worn pages.

The ink runs thin across the aching lines,
while dusk-tide silence folds the room in hush.
What tether holds me in this quiet drift
this half-life written in unfinished breath?

A distant voice stirs beneath the static hush,
haunted by the shape of fading hills.
You sent the first note, fragile and true
together,
we raise our voices in a fading hymn.