Life
is the heart of love
because there is yearning.

In pain,
in agony,
searching, wandering.

Perhaps,
on a young day,
the clear blue line of sight
is a comfortable love.

The heart within
burns and burns.
The fresh body is hidden
quietly.

Only left with the shy
lips that call to the lover;
every evening it rises
with the red heat.

The long
mountain shadow
covers the field road
and a flock of crows.

Swirling around the valley,
the dusk lands on
the cold forest.

Perhaps it will rain.
The evening smoke
of the scent of the pine needles
from the lonely mountain village
covers the field road.

At the center of the
river of yearning,
the waves of love
begin.

The red mountain sunset
silently soaks in
the lonely heart.