I cannot tell
Whose footstep is that paulownia leaf, quietly falling, a perpendicular wave drawn in the windless air?
Whose face is that patch of blue sky that sometimes peeps through the menacing black clouds driven by the west wind after long, tedious rain?
Whose breath is that subtle scent lingering in the still air around that old pagoda, drifting from the green moss on a somber flowerless tree?
Whose song is that small stream winding from an unknown spring, ringing over the pebbles?
Whose poem is that evening glow adorning the sunset, its lotus-like heels treading the boundless sea, its jade-like hands caressing the endless sky?
The burnt-out ash turns back into oil.
Over whose night does the tiny lamp of my ever-burning heart keep vigil?
- The Peace Line