The sky is gray, 
and the black crows caw in the naked tree 
dogging raindrops as they swoop from perch to perch.
The buildings are brick, 
and they complement the barren brown of the winter mountains behind it.

The birds chirp
and the crickets play their songs,
as the darkness descends lower, lower. 
The stars and moon gleam in vain, 
nothing can infiltrate the great canopy 
of leaves and thieves,
that lay low, trapped in a humid murkiness,
their feet cemented in a thick mud, 
ancient roots shackling their ankles.
Sinking, the weight of the stolen fruit and timber on their backs
is too much.
The birds laugh,
And the crickets play their songs. 

Don't tell me your good deeds
In hope to hear mine
I've done too many wrongs 
To speak of my rights 
Nail me to wood
For my sins weigh heavy on my shoulders

The rain it does pour
Never ceasing, never stops
Alone I do walk, alone in the dark 
But the bright lightning won't come 
I have nothing
To guide me home 

The rose that I hold 
Begins to fade way
Pink petals fall to ground
The wind sweeps...

Open your eyes,
My fresh water lily,
Commander of the
Water that falls from the skies,
And take in the sweet syrup,
That strengthens your 
Petals of ivory and gold, 
And wear your crown,
Proudly, My fresh water lily 

She uses her sword to shave her legs,
And trim the split ends of her hair. 
She follows its teachings like it’s the word of her mother,
And kisses the blade like it’s the mouth of her lover.