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We sit high on piles of bones









We sit high on piles of bones
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
Blooming with flowers in the following season