Dry empty lands follow the roadside dust of the West
Staring skyward with hollow eyes
Peering deeply into the black of night
And the hard trials of the silver light of morning
Gone are the storms that blow in from the ocean
Replaced by the tribulations within the sea foam
Frothing hymns coughed up from the murky depths
Out of tune lamentations riding the swells
Here now is the witching hour
As a dark haze of putrid blackness
Settles upon all the land
An eery spell cast down from above
We drop tears into our bread bowls
Sit simmering in our winter cauldrons
Slowly stirring ingredients of the downtrodden
The spices of congestion weighing down
The surrounding hills remain barren brown
Dirt exposed as open lungs
Absorbing the orange and yellowing rays
Licking cracked lips and swallowing dry
Creases deepening to darkened depths
Fissures in the dust dried sinew
Hearts and arteries hardening under folded scowls
Slowing blood flow to the marrow
Needed are the healing songs of the magpie
Screeching softly among the incense cedars
To sing winter's rejoicing tunes
To throw moisture to the winds
Lonely, lively songs to unearth the spirits
Upturn the soil to dig at the roots
Search among the herbs for ancient cures
And bend an ear to the ground
To listen for the music playing idle
Strings, woodwinds, horns,
Hanging notes softly steady rolling....
Bass drums slowly rumbling
Like constant thunder....
Building and falling in the same instant....
Bringing peace to calm the mind....
Visions of waters resting
Below white, heavy snow laden peaks to the East....
Clouds building nearby intensify the crescendo....
Tinkling chimes ring out in graceful unison....
Then softly the music fades away as the wind picks up....
In the distance the magpie takes shelter
Deeply inhaling the clean cold mountain air
Reveling in pure winter fresh breaths
Letting the medicine work its course...