Clouds

Divine illumination disappears

with every subtle inhalation.

Black is the forest

and quiet is the plain.

One man sitting on his porch

weeping for humanity,

these savage noble beasts:

“Obscured my mind

and divided my soul

into pieces –

the doomsday melody.

Mourners occupied my land

of hopes and dreams,

trying to reach for the unspoiled,

while running away from their own

freakish trespasses.”

Hold on!

The rush hour of the day,

the serene minute of the century.

Carrying the bones of the prophets,

then shaking their ash to go with zephyr –

the doomsday melody.

Yes, quiet is the plain

as I lay down and watch the clouds

running away from skies in the tempo of –

the doomsday melody.