grey meadow


My fingers are numb,
but my soul is full of bliss.
My body is cold and wet,
but my heart is on fire,
burning, burning,
and flying through the trees.

The forest is steaming,
so am I.
My clothes are dripping with cold November rain,
but my feet are running,
down, down,
faster, faster,
through the yellow grass.

The firs stand black and tall,
like silent giants.
My spirit leaps wildly
from rock to tree,
riding on the wind,
hammering down against stone and bone,
like the rain.

What do I care for fairies and or pixies,
when my heart has more wild power
and is real like the water on my skin?

Grey mist,
brown meadows,
are my palace of pleasure;
where my heart dances free,
calling loudly like the wild geese;
the echo rebounding from every stone
and from the earth itself.

Song of the mud,
song of rough elements
that constitute my soul.
Mine is the wind,
mine is the icy down-pour,
mine is the pain,
mine is the laughter.

Burning blood
warms me still,
running with the flowing water,
down the hill,
splashing and bounding and falling.
No sweeter joy
than the biting pain,
the oneness with nature and its force.

Heavy cold rain
makes me feel alive;
like a bursting waterfall
I break over rocks and earth.
They are my drums,
my legs are the beater,
my heart the dancer,
passion is the music of life.