Things that we’d understood, through the meditations that we all do from time to time, translated…
The Fog Made Rough Sketches of the Shadows of the Trees
Gray & White
Twinkled on in the Dimly-Lit Sunlight
The Sparrows Hopped Around Through the Fields
Leaving Those Chirps, in the Days that Passed by Way Too Quickly
Awakened, a Lot of the Sound-Asleep Silences
Some People We Knew, Left Very Suddenly
Gone to a Place, Indescribable of Words
Feelings of Sadness, Like the Rain that’s
Walked Through from Before
The Wind Silently Hidden
the Wrinkles that Weren’t Seen, that Quieted Smile
in the Sleeves
The Busyness that Stayed Hidden in the Light
and the Death that Hid in the Darkness
Branched Out Inside the Physical Bodies
Climbed Over the Walls, Looked Upon
the Waters, the Lights, Faded Away so Quietly, without a Sound
I’d Often, Returned Back into that Fog
Wiped Away the Backsides, in the Memories without Much Airflow
to Brighten Them, or to
Make Them Vanish
Then, Waited, Until the Fogs Subsided
Hearing the Echoes, of My Own
Conversation with My Self
This is, a sort of a meditation that this poet is in, watching everything that’s changed around her/him, and yet, everything stood still, and, s/he’d figured out, the only constant in her/his life was her/himself.