Remembering things is challenging~
the garbage of the self; playing piano;

tears like blood drops, in the yelling rain.
The sound is only the perception of the brain~

twisted vibration for its own conversion.
The raindrops fall on all the free flowers.

The mistral cannot blow the sufferings or feelings.
A falling petal can tint a tone poem; secret graves,

gravely hidden errors, erratic glaciers,
cloudy windows, and homeless workers;

to gaze at the coming sun on gloomy mornings;
a mental eye having a bias against heaven; hail.

A dance of raindrops in the light and fireworks in the night;
rhythmic echoes. The blowing wind can bust the blue and

downhearted life up in chaos; the harsh light of the wars;
plants and animals bleeding and kneeling;

folks as living rocks, rockeries in gardens; to have
a sense of belonging and a language of longing;

the women in the temples singing holy hymns;
listening to their own voices.

The winds and the spirits are inconspicuous;
stillness, strength. Heaven is higher than the rain.

The noise made by a jet fighter can speed up
the breaking windows, the withering flowers,

the altering dreams, and the crumbling churches.
This noise can resemble the mistral; eons of weathering.

In the mist, the unfleshly souls climb up
the serene mountains before metamorphosing.