With an oak mask
the conscience hears the acorns fall,
and all the hues of the rose break down.
Do you exist in the inanimate world,
if every raindrop shows no color,
not even white or clear?

You are the breathing survivor
of spiritual perfection in the sevenfold universe,
where the center of the wonder orb is shaken,
and I frame myself live,
sculpting out of myself the spiritual fabric
to dress up all of you. 

At first the universe progress
feels like a statue of melancholic fog,
and only your breath can know, how sore my throat is,
as it spits out a heart bubble,
where my clear eyes and woolen hair is seen.

Retiming your resurrected gaze,
I pass the future earth to you,
so you could write my name on it
and pass it on to everyone
around this slippery world. 

When clouds turn into puddles
for the children to walk on,
this is your chance to help the innocent… 

Now you comprehend,
why the unstable sandals
are also on your hands…