Fetching wisdom...
John Keats, Matsuo Basho, Kobayashi Issa, Emily Brontë, Rabindranath Tagore — the long tradition of writers who found in nature not comfort, but a mirror for their deepest grief.
“The spring sea rises and falls all day, rising and falling.
“The state is broken; mountains and rivers remain.
“A leaf falls, leaving but a sigh. The whole world is now a whisper.
“The sea eats the rocks. Time eats the hills. Nothing is permanent.
“Summer grasses: all that remains of warriors' dreams.
“Bright moonlight before my bed: I thought it was frost on the ground.
“A world of dew, and within every dewdrop a world of struggle.
“Río Grande de Loíza... blue current that strips my soul.
“I wish I were a girl again, half‑savage and hardy, and free.
“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
“So little cause for carolings of such ecstatic sound was written on terrestrial things afar or nigh.
“Only the wind can hear me now.
“The sea carries the dead, the living, and those not yet born.
“Awful sea and awful sky.
“In this world of dew, yes, a world of dew indeed. And yet, and yet.
“The earth remembers its children, even in the silence of their departure.
“An old silent pond. A frog jumps into the pond. Splash! Silence again.
“Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.
“Our lives are like the rivers, flowing ever onward to a vast, unknown sea.
“The mountain is empty, yet somewhere a bell is ringing.