Some pictures say more than what you and I can ever know
They speak of stories beyond men and women
Of boiling couldrons of grief under a magnificent countenance
And of a zenness that is afforded to those
Who truly know the poetry of time,
Or do they lie?
His heart is open to the sky and his body spilt over this earth
As though he were their promiscuous Son
Only hard to make them meet
They said he was born tiny and then he grew; who knew
In grief, in love, in vanity or jealousy, in strength
Did grief bring him closer to the sky or love
Who saw his birth, who knew this girth?
They said if you listen closely, he sings for you,
But if you want it too badly, he will close his lips
Fujisan weave clouds as we weave our punctured lives into blurred portraits of lives that should be lived?
Do we like mountains, live in those stories of daily deaths and infinite moorings?
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