fall and I am a cloud with tears for rain.
Walled by worries, and cares,
I get drunk,
on the scent of liquor,
or the sight of tomorrow.
The mountains are more lonely,
their waters colder,
the years pass unmarked in desolate hamlets,
huddled around the giant's curling toes.
Exile it is among them a spirit,
that settles like the winter clouds.
Walk and recite your favorite rhymes.
On your return, I will play your flute,
and draw from you sounds,
that break the muteness of your habit.
Since ancient times the fall is sorrow,
but these are better than the spring,
because in the green there are false hopes,
while now the harvest is very real.
Call your curses by their colors,
golden flowers, blackened brines,
dragons that lust for other blood.
Rats that eat the votes that are cast,
and shit the votes that will be counted.
But once your gales are truly blown,
their rogue waves crested and carried away,
then settle to the work of plucking,
the fruit that waits, naked, for you.
(After several Tang poems.)