Your time is now, pink cherries blossom. You are the truth, are you still true to it?
My train runs faster, raindrops slide down the window glass, and the thick rain stirs a pond, my soul, as I pass along.
A boundless sea splashed once where horses are plucking grass, and wet tiled roofs. on hillslopes bathe in clouds.
In childhood, tears flowed without shame, and laughter was a sincere joy. The rain poured down, you waltzed with her and were just friends.
And now you write poems, not crossing out anything, free as a bird and waltzing with your soul.
Raindrops slide down and blur the spring where horses are plucking grass, where hillslopes bathe in clouds, where your path disappears.
The smallest hills are ancient mountains. The tiniest pond connects to the sea. The most faithful way is hidden in clouds. You are the truth; your time is now.