Life

At all times the moon rises equally. Peering through the leafy trees, it lights the night with a pale light. And the candles at the windows and on the desks burned faintly. The shadows lurking in the room are shaking. A grave marker indicating that many predecessors sleep here. A place of repose reached beyond life. Occasionally people visit to remember a certain day. Fun, nostalgic, and lonely, and regrettable. Even if you leave this world, that figure lives on in people. He watches over the people, ticking quietly. In the moonlight, I try to spell. The gently harmonized flowers of the vase nestle gently against me. But the hand holding the pen remains in its shape and refuses to move. He did not know how to organize the endless flood of thoughts. There are no expressions to fill in the blank for him. It's still raining in my heart.