The rains have returned again, and now a solitary shakuhachi’s
plaintive lament, recorded over half a century ago, echoes
through my darkened room — a message from emptiness
inviting me to let go, to vanish with each note.
My heart’s in a mist-swathed forest, my feet climb mountain trails.
A lone flute from the valley below ripples up here in the still moist air
while I pause to listen for a thousand years, till every tear has fallen.
Don’t tell me about the works of man, their games and tragedies.
I’ve forgotten their faces, their smirks and frowns, and the easy lies
they’re prone to tell no longer really bother me, I’ve left all that behind.
At last I stir from my reverie, it’s time I rose and got to work —
there’s always something to do in this life, and how lucky we are
that it happens that way: we arrive and are given these roles to play,
whether strolling alone through the ancient hills in our imagination,
or just watching from our window as the rain pours down all day.