Classic Poem

Behind the gate of light
the lady of the languishing moon,
of the echoes,
of vanishing dew,
rests.

Shall we begin at zero point?
What harm in that?
The season of creation begins in the
season of nothingness:
the arduous climb
is the beginning of the end.

Behind the gate of light the lady
of the quiescent moon
of the vanishing sunset watches
the snows about to melt while
moonrays drown in the mirror.

Show me a place where I could
lie quietly among corners
a jungle where I can take shade,
a flower whose dew and fragrance I can breathe.
Grass loves all depths and distances,
but is also found in the surface
of the road that contains it.

The desert sun flirted with the clouds
in the hall of silence, or of those thirsty sands;
nothingness delivered the blow of death.
What harm to repeat the story?

What harm to us?
The season of creation begins in
the season of nothingness
if it is tended carefully.

But
by climbing,
one reaches the top of the slope.
Shall we begin?
Or is this
the beginning of the end?