Can a thorn feel pain as it inflicts sorrow? Can a river deny softness as it ferries? Can a forest feel giving birth to its fairies? Can a clock deny us an endless tomorrow? Can a closed window deny tales of horror? In the emptiness of a wish, I'm a cherry blossom. Everything speaks to me, the glary of impermanence transcends a tomorrow. Who can really speak in name of the dead? Arrogance suits the weak. Knowledge is great, but in hands full of tar, there is only war. Questions with no answers, just an ahead. We are running against a closed shut gate. Further we go, away, from being a star.