Classic Poem

The sounds
flow not wanting to become a river
but before you know it the sounds are gone
and there a river flows

The sounds at first tried to become a new river
but too fast or too slow
it wasn't a river
except even though clouds reflected in the river of sounds
even though people looked back at it
and ran along with it
when trees budded on the river banks
the river of sounds understood it had neither spring or fall
but when the sounds forget what they become
and flow, modesty and foolishness together, as if tired
exposing themselves completely
they somehow become a river
and the sounds no longer notice that they are a river
they don't care what they are
throwing themselves out
as if not caring that they are not sounds, not a river
before long spring comes and the summer
and they don't even notice that they have become a tree

The sounds, not looking at themselves
are in what keeps them alive
the sounds no longer make people dance
no longer make people weep
the sounds mingle with the world
like the circling of the moon, without end they are singing
like the circling of the moon, without making them aware they are among people

... In that manner the sounds go home.