A flower will still bloom,
a wolf will still howl
at the grain-scented moon,
a red apple
will still fall
in the lap of July.
Only I won't be here
to see it all.
Why, then, would the flower bloom,
and the wolf howl at the moon,
and the apple ripen?
Perhaps, I would become this bloom,
this howl and this round fragrance
for him
who follows my steps,
as I replace
him who was the flower,
the howl and the fragrance,
pushing him out, higher,
towards total silence.
