The Season of Rain, a Poem

Translated…

The shadows of the moon raced with the time, the bridge, with the water

You who’d never competed with anybody, kept your friendships, literature and love in your mind

The grasses, trees and flowers in your gardens, started dancing with wings, and, those without the wings danced on too, they are all blessed, because someone understood

The time is rushing somewhere, and yet, it’s quietly asleep

The gardens became a yard, or, is it, that patch of green by the river underneath the skies

There’s that feeling of rendezvous, with the scent of the white chrysanthemums

Lightly scented, barely detected, but once detected, hard to forget

Or, maybe, there’s no need to run at all, change a thought, then, there would be patches of green when you walked out the house?

Or, change a thought, then, your heart would go pitter-patter………

Sometimes, you can manage, to ferment the seasons, some of the moments

Are nothing MORE than just freeze frames in time

You’d still managed to get there first, or rather, never actually left at all

The slender build of your body, became the solitary backdrop for your kingdom of solitude

And still, with the slow burning speed of candle after candle

You’d managed, to warm up an entire city, with all its streets

Wearing that long robe, but looking modern, even, a bit more at the front of time

The backside of those who went before you

Heated, and still hadn’t forgot about the literatures through time

The eyes that followed behind you came like shooting stars—those are the sparkling, eyes of the spirits, the spirits’ eyes

The moment they’d twinkled

Allowing the dust in the world, to settle back, as dusts

Wave your hands, you’re still, flying, against, the wind

The quieted light, or, a purple butterfly

Toward the heavens, or the origins of love

Literature and meditation, combined into one, accompanying you in a dream state

Those forceful butterfly wings

Flying farther than all butterflies could and would

Took along with them, everything and nothing

The shadows that are sitting like Zen masters

The small garden of nostalgia, the branches, the leaves, the birds, the bugs, all stopped making noises

Using their silence, to transmit

Just as you had, with your silence too

At the mouth of the river, the fog started to rise

The poetry took form

And the rain that came late, started showing up at the corners of their eyes

Such a beautiful monsoon season, the light gathered atop of the waters

These happier times

The night is crisp clean, but, there’s no sound from inside my window, tick-tock

There are, some drops of rain, that drips, into eternity

And so, this, is how someone is missed, and, this is a year after the poet had gone, and, this person is writing a memoriam, in honor of the man, and, instead of that strong sense of loss after you’d lost someone, there’s an alternative kind of peace of time, a sort of nostalgia.