It’s often like the wind that
Hands spread apart in merriment,
that we get out of some lives
so fast.. So effortless..
But there remains in
every folds of it
typical of those hills..
however hard we try to brush it off.
Oft, when we turn back
in queer anxiety of something forgotten
the piece of the azure sky above it
the pristine springs.
The wild verdancy in each slope
the ones, who promised their lives in return for death.
They must be trembling to let loose.
It is like death which comes
with its arms spread wide
that we let ourselves out from some lives,
so fast… so effortless…