Drizzling, whispering,
in the fine rain.
Pace slowly on the flagstone path.
Tranquil, still.
Set foot on this path,
and cannot cease,
no matter how much rain has fallen,
how many miles have passed beneath.
Pluck a jasmine from the branch,
then sip raindrops from leaf tips.
Look sideways,
into the woods,
and see nothing but glazed threads,
so dense, so hazy, so fine.
Gaze not ahead.
Turn not around.
Gaze far— no path ahead comes into sight.
Turn around— no homeward way comes into view.
At the outset,
woods lush, flowers fragrant, birdsong clear,
clothes dry and neat.
And now,
barren ground around, not a blade of grass remains,
clothes flecked with mud stains.
In the fine rain,
whispering, drizzling.
The raindrops are as delicate as ever,
only denser, and thicker.
Worry not about the dimming view;
for the self has blurred.
Still, tranquil.
Pace slowly on the flagstone path,
among the clouds, toward the end beneath the horizon.
What lies ahead?
What remains behind?
No measure of sorrow noticed;
and no trace of regret seen.
Faint be the sigh,
and gone be the lament.
Can’t peer, can’t discern, can’t see—
Has it not been a grace?
