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The Funeral on the Mountain

Mournful wind
Even when the season is over
The cherry blossoms will still bloom
Piling up, piling up,
They will shine with the moon.

Dragon on the mountain
Torches in a funereal procession
Of lamenting lights
Rows upon rows, rows upon rows,
Winding to the mountain’s heights.

Shrouded body
Snow-white silk cast over
Cold and corpse-pale skin
Pure now, pure now,
So opposite of what was within.

Darkened gaze
Poignant eyes closed forever
Against the star-filled sky
Tears falling, tears falling,
The cold stars weep for life gone by.

Marble standing stately
A tomb with crouching lion-dogs
To watch the dead, unchanged and pale,
Stone eyes, stone eyes,
Unmoved by mourner’s wail.

Cold stone
A death chamber for sleepless sleepers
Far beyond passer’s jest or rhyme
Deathly silent, deathly silent,
Touched only by passing time.

World turns
Skin falls away
Casing for a now-fled soul
Crumbling away, crumbling away,
A vessel shed to pay life’s toll.

Pearl-white phantoms
Bone shines in the muted light
That falls from among tomb’s marble peaks
Glimmering, glimmering,
This pale remnant of past life that cannot speak.

Harvest moon
Hanging low and golden
Over autumn-painted leaves and pines
Starkly showing, starkly showing,
Each of the flawed and perfect lines.

Winter silence
Snow heavy on bare branches
And piled on cold stone
Hiding sorrow, hiding sorrow,
The bitter breeze grieves alone.

Solitary forest
Frozen shroud over marble
Silken shroud under stone
Wretchedly still, wretchedly still,
Ice hides earth as silk hides bone.

Water dripping
The warm air draws forth life
From the once-stifled mountain top and hill
Ever so lightly, ever so lightly,
But the tomb stands deathly silent still.

Hearts move on
Mourners come but once now
A year between each solemn call
Tears drying, tears drying,
Soon they will no longer fall.

Gentle flowers
Over once-haughty marble heights
Green-lined with time and moss
Covering pride, covering pride,
Memories cast aside, or lost.

Spring days
Sunlight lingers longer in the trees
Warm gold instead of winter’s blue
So desolate, so desolate,
On the long-forgotten tomb.

Mournful wind
Even when the season is over
The cherry blossoms will still bloom
Piling up, piling up,
Even dying, they shine with the moon.





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