White drops descending

From Heaven's Gate.

In solitude monks speak

Of a rushing river

Kept in rugged mountains, lofty hills.

In the reflection of every drop

A wanderer does stride

From the sky to Earth.

Seeking for a jewel

For a flower and stone,

Hidden from sight and mist.

As clear rain glistens upon leaves,

Its song gathers clouds and light.

And, in the morning of the Clear Rain,

A Mother gowned in white walks.

She takes the hand of every drop.

In solitude, Her Children would speak

Of a rushing river

Kept in eyes immaculate. Higher vision.