A Kind of Poetry
To discover a tree's memories is impossible.
To seek a pebble's experience is also impossible.
We spy on water's motion
but in the end we still can't touch its core.
The cloud has always been there, we exhaust our energy
to understand its will, yet there's no hope
it will reveal the sky's mysteries.
Poetry also has the will of clouds
with words like rain, to avoid madness
it creates more madness. Just as when love
is written down, it loses half of its sincerity.
When explained, there is only a layer of sticky
mist left. No one is quick or deft enough
to capture poetry for long. Everything perfect
contains a dark cave.