Piles of bones

High and gloomy

Heaped by millions of years of death

Quietly burns

The fire of phosphorescent light

But never be burnt to death

The pain of bones

Are seeds of all kinds of soul

Harvested in the bag of wind

Besprinkled to wild plains

In bloom are thousands of flowers

The fingers of sunshine

Stroke the flowers, just as

A serene mother feels her baby in her womb

Thousands of babies

Thousands of fruits of the flowers

Thousands of fruits of pain

Born in the bloody basin of dawn

Born as beautiful and ignorant as us

We sit high on piles of bones

Listening to the stories

Told by phosphorescent light

In the flame of narration

We learn and execute the process of nirvana

With eyes gradually burnt into ashes

We see the pain of our bones