In the silence of the whisperings,
The shimmering moon sings along,
The fluttering of the dancing robe of,
The hermits humming a mounting song.
As the cuckoo bird perches on,
The overhead pine cowering trees,
The path itself bends within along,
The monk's forgotten sprees in life.
The baggage of the left out roads,
Dust within the dusty storms,
The vacant throne Webbs along,
The forlorn king's sulky dorms.
The salty seas of the mother's heart,
Flows beyond the banking reefs,
The darkness of the engulfing space,
Echoes within the palace chiefs.
But the imprinted feet on the forest,
The floor fades away in the nick of time,
They refuse to make an impending turn,
Back again for the fickling dimes.
The blankets of the frozen hills,
Smothering embrace of watering,
Enfolding huge yet abandoned roads,
Making way for the hermit's rook.
As the silence of the whisperings,
Sings along the shimmering moon,
The saintly monk exhales the last,
Shackling breath a shattering gloom.

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