Slow is the rhythm and soft is the sound.
Wandering, pondering, over the ground,
Down to the dark and inscrutable sea
Carried along by my urgency,
Strange, unexplainable, urgency.
Down in the water, a single red rose.
Love and indifference — a juxtapose —
Somebody lost it, or threw it away:
Here, to wash up in the foamy gray,
Here, by my feet, in the foamy gray.
I do not listen enough to these waves.
Spending my life in my various caves,
I miss the cry in the song of the breeze,
And do not come upon mysteries,
Our hearts are meant to find mysteries.
Slow is the rhythm and soft is the tune.
I turn to head back along the dune,
Saying goodbye to the evening star —
What we don’t know tells us who we are;
What we can’t know
Tells us who