LAST CYCLE © 2008
The grass, once dry, now grows lush and green,
With supreme desire, echoing to the wind, its lover.
It whispers secrets, as if guarding a secret,
Blowing gently, avoiding fear.
Let not ill fortune bring breezes of misadventure,
And make death sprout a shadow obscure.
But with abundant water, the soil flourishes,
Hardly does misery survive or appear.
Between the furrows, circling the pen,
Life flows, like a river with a subtle course.
It flutters in the artery, pulsating with strength and fervour,
The grass reborn, with hope and vigour.