A lonely park bench
Sits atop the snowy hill
Bathed in lamplight
Such a dreary day
But perhaps a joyous night
Guess that's how it goes.
Warm and fragrant rice
The cool touch of the fresh fish
His soul, presented
Sitting on the bench
Breath, condensing into fog
The snow falls, she waits
Cold wind, icy rain
Slashing the man's huddled form
The fire is waiting
The stellar canvas
Above the field where we lie
Who could ask for more?
Scattered papers, pens
Fragments of a thousand thoughts
I should clean my desk
The press of bodies
Exiting the train, I breath
Embraced by the rain
