I think the screaming wind said my name,
significance found in rocks,
then the mountain slowly blowing
and the river,
lost wisdom returns.
And the sound of the river sighing,
"Here's your home."
Under the ashes, waking up,
and blue dusk slowly revealing.
Seeing the moon in the middle of the day,
the gleaming stone
cuts streams; I've been living, sleeping.
Now the world is flaming,
or is it clouds rising through the trees on the ridge?
I know the world is a flaming house
and what I hold
I will be grieving,
and lost wisdom returns,
watching dust dancing,
living a long life, growing towards form,
awareness persistently fleeting,
and the song that cuts through the fog sometimes
is lost in rainy evenings.
Wrapped in fog
in the depths of the house,
I followed a sound further in
and I saw you.