10/03/2023
JoHannes
2 Reviews
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JoHannes
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Kōya-san
When - at the edges of the days, when the summer glows into the foliage sleep.
Now - in the coming times of smoke, of falling, of home, of gathering, now it whispers from all pores of longing, softly, warming, comforting: I cradle you, I nurture you, I guide you.
Here - Kōya-san, the temple, the monks, the great silence.
There - the old ZEN monk, tightly gripping the leather handle of the wooden broom. As he sweeps the damp leaves through the waving forest. The warm misty glow is fragrant: holy smoke, noble woods. Green grasses give away their scent to strangers. A great curl, a silent being.
The temple is now shelter, warming, home.
Hear - the chants of silence. And all these smells - full of comfort. The warmth sounds deeper now. Skin longs to skin. Silence. Lovers, wordlessly silent they fall asleep.
There - I invite you. Kōya-san.
Now - in the coming times of smoke, of falling, of home, of gathering, now it whispers from all pores of longing, softly, warming, comforting: I cradle you, I nurture you, I guide you.
Here - Kōya-san, the temple, the monks, the great silence.
There - the old ZEN monk, tightly gripping the leather handle of the wooden broom. As he sweeps the damp leaves through the waving forest. The warm misty glow is fragrant: holy smoke, noble woods. Green grasses give away their scent to strangers. A great curl, a silent being.
The temple is now shelter, warming, home.
Hear - the chants of silence. And all these smells - full of comfort. The warmth sounds deeper now. Skin longs to skin. Silence. Lovers, wordlessly silent they fall asleep.
There - I invite you. Kōya-san.
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