January 24, 1999: Helpless friend
It’s been raining since noon yesterday—quite hard at times. Filled, is the normally calm stream, I see anger. The word sent is that of unrest—the sky, she has opened. A fallen branch calls out to me while not knowing he was no longer part of the tree. In deep sadness, the poet turns and walks away—there is silence. The temperature starts to change. Rainfall has turned to snow and the branch is still lying there. What will happen? Will or can anything be forgotten?