Upon a pitch-black wick, a lantern burns in white flame,
Though not quite enlightenment, it brightens the heart’s own light.
Even the mountain birds, long unnoticed, awaken with a start.
The streetlamps that illumine the night road are flowers too,
Yet these blossoms illumine an inner realm where no celestial light has ever trod.
Along the cherry-blossom path, the shadows of passersby glow softly.
Why does the lantern lit by flowers extinguish so swiftly?
Is it to teach us to seize the fleeting moment and live as though it were eternity?
When I turn back in lingering regret, black fruits shimmer quietly in the dark.
