Wringing the last drops out of life
in search of a silver stream of happiness,
squeezing the juice from a ripe peach
hoping the sweetness will last,
we glean the scraps looking for gold.
Only those who want little,
whose desires are rounded by a trail of trinkets
will sigh and let seep into their blood
the red ink of sunset.
Wanting something words cannot say,
I grub and delve among dark roots,
while overhead, the dancing sky-flowers
call wistfully and race
over the edge of oblivion