So, am I what thou doth see’st, a face lost?
In the bamboo wood a tiger to meet,
As rain slants upon the bold waters tossed,
Tides upward rising swallow up defeat.
Therefore, one holds to solemn holy ground,
Where rare sightings art in mine soul revealed,
Like crystal refractions echoing sound,
On golden sails upon the gale doth yield.
For the whistling storm keeps time with my chest,
Luring the wayward nomad to refuge there,
Source of light at nature’s humble request,
Beginning life anew if thou would’st so dare.
Sacred quintessence, thy courage do share,
Holding true, dear tiger, thine life born, to bear.