Notes from Beyond

 

I am a sincere man

From where the palm trees grow
And before death takes me,
I want to let the poems soar from my soul,

 

I come from everywhere
And everywhere I go;
Art I am among the arts,
Among the mountains,
Mountains I am.

 

All is beautiful and loyal.
All is musical and right.
And all, like the diamond,
Is charcoal before being light.

 

With the poor of the world
my fate, cast long ago;
A little brook in the mountain
Pleases me more than the sea.

 

I want, whenever I die,
Stateless, but with no master.
To have trees for my marker
wherever I once roamed.

 

I cultivate a white rose
IN July as in January,
For the sincere friends
who offer me their honest hand
And for the cruel ones who rip from me
My heart by which I live,
I cultivate neither thorns nor thistles;
I cultivate the white rose.