A dreamy corner of a planet,A defile, with pines howling on either side of it;
Hanging on its elegiac tune, rather reluctantly,
I happened to bump on an enlightenment--
How a great uncertainty wails.
No, it can't be so to thee.
Just a way of interpreting,
But I held it and still do so,
A great portal to a lost world
That could be just evoked, not with brushstrokes.
And thou appeared at last,
The dreamy nymph, a stoic to me,
And it could be my own way of misjudging.
But a sentient thou art that matters,
My words of well-wishing could be siphoned off
That I still fancy.
Yes, my own way again.
Then what left over other than this savvy self-projection?
That crunchy, squelchy rhythm,
A pair of heavy feet on a plane of unblemished whiteness--
Yet another beginning,
Yet another projected trail of a winding timescale.
Don't say the same boring story,
As nothing is so if could be seen from this mystic angle--
Just projection both the observer and the matter.
Then what to haste for so,
Once freed oneself by outwitting it thus?
The defile, howling pines, the enlightenment--
They're just like clowns to me now,
Not worth-brooding over.
Yet thou, the sentient one, breathe just thus,
Despite my slipped discrimination yet
Like taking thee being there that concretely.
