A drop of rain that fell to ripple over the still face of the river basin to lightly wiggle a blade of grass and fan the insubstantial amount of air around its sphere to push it upward a little to the altitude where the vapor once again becomes water and fall all over again on that certain liquid plane and ripple across that surface once more; just a recurrence, an utter repetition of words spoken by men of the old days -- that is me.
That dog with soulful eyes,
With claw-less set of paws,
With snowy fleece no flaws,
And free of fleas and lice.
...
The morning sun exalts the day.
It paints the blues of sky above,
The amber hue of drying hay,
The snow of cotton-winged dove.
...
One has to find in the river a
Basin which goes by a name
And the name is his own.
In the searching of mine,
...
I have had two friends.
One picked and packed cotton,
The other smelted and smashed iron.
...