In Bright Mist Of Guilin

In Bright Mist Of Guilin
© Surazeus
2018 08 03

Clouds transform shapes in the vast empty sky,
becoming everything words can describe.
I draw pictures in books with shapes and colors
to depict everything that can exist.

We sit together in chairs on the porch
and sing old folk songs written long ago.
We pass bottles of wine to drink the light,
and talk about people we loved and lost.

The sleeping volcano covered by snow
shimmers over vast city of glass towers.
Ravens on phone lines watch humans walk fast
to race each other in the money maze.

I draw clouds in the book left on the porch,
as light glows on people who laugh in snow.
The sky describes colors of chairs who sing
in bottles that sleep where phone lines steal words.

After traveling Scythia to Oregon,
I want to dwell in bright mist of Guilin.
On the street in every city on Earth
I sing ancient poems no one understands.

Westward around our eastward-spinning globe
my ancestors migrated after the sun.
The far edge of the west becomes the east
where we all feast in bright mist of Guilin.