Senses

are perceptions way of painting,

with the sensuality of a sable brush,

but this life is an artwork

without an artist,

perception without a perceiver

Even you

are but a free-floating culmination

of geometries,

up, down, in, out, this-a-way and that,

the wind catching its breath,

water drying its face in a pond,

a motionless journey on the inside of out

and vice versa;

the end rising tall at the start of beginning;

parallel tracks in the snow

telling the long, winding tale of skis,

laid out in history like the reliefs of Persepolis;

the rosaries of alphabets

in the hands of the speechless

Meanwhile, winter is a hideout

deep down the thermometers;

summer all out attraction

up the glimmer of foliages