In a teashop, where quiet fills the air,
indoor games of thought play without care.
Inexpensive progress is near, I sit still,
lost in seasons thoughts, my heart to fill.
A high nonconformist, I wander alone,
loneliness wraps me like a cloak unknown.
Meditation on mortality, deep and wide,
like a picture of a deaf man, the silence—my guide.
At the seaside, men play golf—swings slow,
a slough of time calls me to let go.
Summoned by bells, distant and clear,
the cottage, my home, drawing me near.
Farewell to the last laugh, fleeting as light,
candy fields stretching into the night.
Lift, fair lady, lift—beyond what you see,
the Wopolian girl, she calls you to be free.
The vision remains, etched in the heart,
as time moves on, and we all depart.
WoPoLi 
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