On an ordinary autumn evening
Ordinary fruit is better.
Sometimes ordinary words
With no peculiar savor
Suit me better.
Hearing in memory
The last car depart,
I step over
The membrane of sleep,
And a fruit falls in my dream.
I will ask the wind
That departs in the morning
To what depths the fruit has fallen.
unknown translator
The long neck makes him a sad creature,
Always gentle and quiet.
The fragrant crown betrays
His noble birth.
Looking at his image
Reflected in the stream,
He recalls the lost myths,
Then in helpless nostalgia,
Cranes the sad neck
To gaze at faraway hills.
My mind resembles cabin-lake water
Rippled by stray winds,
Shadowed by flowing clouds.
Someone is throwing stones;
Another is fishing;
Another is singing.
By this shore on a lonely night,
Stars quietly float on the water
And the woods quietly lull the waves.
But each night I cover the lake with my dreams
Lest this shore be untidy
The day the white swan returns.
unknown translator
What shall I do, Waves?
Waves, what shall I do?
Love is unmoved like the shore.
What shall I do, Waves?
What shall I do?
Night is
A lake shrouded in blue fog.
I am a fisherman
On a sleep’s sailboat,
Fishing dreams.
Mountains are steadfast but the mountain streams
Go by, go by,
And yesterdays are like rushing streams,
They fly, they fly,
And the great heroes, famous for a day,
They die, they die.
translated by Peter H. Lee
Under the far-off, pale-blue sky
rows of grey roofs flash.
The wind whines in the wood
through the ribbed trees.
Mists invade a mountain village
barely visible in the distance.
The rain has chilled the dawn air.
The stream freezes, studded with fallen leaves.
Memories coming alive in tears
whisper comfortingly to my soul
that cries wildly like an infant
cut with a knife.
Wasn’t there a time
when you were happy and light-hearted?
How the voice soothes,
a salve to my bruised heart.
I cry and cry at the voice,
without shame or hate.
A purple cloud drifts away
and the sky begins to clear.
The snow fallen steadily in the night
bursts the pine grove into blossoms.
Millions of flashing flakes
dazzle in the sunlight.
I gaze on them forgetful
of what happened during the night.
A purple cloud drifts away.
Flowers were opening at the house where I spent the night;
this morning I cross a river afloat with petals.
Spring is busy like people, coming and going:
no sooner have I seen the flowers than I see them fall.
translated by Kim Jong-gil
My wish to see you is fulfilled only in dreams;
whenever I visit you, you visit me.
So let us dream again some future night,
starting at the same time to meet on our way.
translated by Kim Jong-gil
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
A virtual cabaret of songs, stories and questionable life choices.
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet and author by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 