Tall and staid the Tree stood alone in the valley of kismet.
Rain whipped the bark into timid helpless pulp.
Thunder pitilessly peeled the core.
And now it weeps those tears once more.
Joining, mingling, often dazzling,
Streaks of ravishing hues colliding,
Cottoness weaving patchy dreams,
Culminating into willowy streams,
Feathery blues, such peaceful solitude,
In acres binding forgotten clues;
to absolute enlightenment
The voice:
That I heard so many years ago,
From the distant lakes,
Near the forests pure.
The voice:
Whispers in quickening breaths,
Beckoning me to quietness,
Calling the wild soul,
Knowing what I know not.
I sit down under a Tree in the dense forest of thought,
The sounds of leaves in silent speech enchant my mind and heart,
The brook is respectful and bubbles softly in quiet friendship,
Dainty blossoms wink with naughty glance,
And the Philosopher tall and I are engaged in deeper talk.
