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Drawing a curved line
that can hardly be called a circle,
when the tiny little thing comes up,
‘See my beautiful circle, grandpa’,
without seeing the sketch I clasp him,
Or else his efforts how can I reward?
That was another time long gone by,
carefully drawing the eye-liner
when she asked, ‘How do my…’,
snatching her words promptly I pronounced,
‘a decorated pair of almonds’,
or else how could I have discovered
the landscape encircled within her heart's border?
Pushing aside the curtains of clouds
when the morning sun pours pails of liquid gold,
if the birds do not wake up and flowers do not smile
and we do not take part in the gold rush,
what fun will be there for the sun to get up before dawn?
The flight of time remains ever unseen;
the thunder is the sound its chariot makes
and lightning is the spark it creates though,
Or else how shall we any time know
still is not time, but is on the move ever!
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