Rain, come again, full of promise and truth.
Endless onslaughts on my garden have damaged
the trees of light, destroying my butterflies in dark.
Death was my private thing, moon, come again.
Deep in my throat a cuckoo sings for a queen of darkness,
to invite the mists and clouds, I cannot speak for now.
Ancient history is repeating the story.
At dawn, the shadows are gone.
From unknown to unknown
a thought moves impinging the landmarks.
I pick up the nameless pebbles.
Time crashes, death and life play a game,
memories wear the grey costumes of fear and pain.
