2016 08 09
Blind on cold highway overpass at midnight,
I watch long river of memories flash
in headlights of three hundred million cars
that weave our souls in tapestry of dreams.
I sit on high mountain of contemplation,
watching cities sprout like mushrooms after rain,
and feel people work like flocks of wild birds,
till old mountain swallows our singing bones.
Why am I so awake inside this skull
out of all the zillions of dreaming skulls
that throbbed awake with memory of lust,
and how soon will I vanish in mute wind?
What mountain remains after wind of breath
and rain of our eyes washes them away
since time generates our bodies from soil
then grinds our bones to soil where flowers bloom?
I sit on young mountain in sun and rain,
becoming every soul who ever lived,
and write their memories in soil of Earth
that glow with light of atoms forged by stars.
Grinning, Li Po hands me bottle of wine
and points to soft petals falling from trees,
then we follow white moon in shining stream
and vanish into children who forget.