(I had a really, really painful first semester at U.C. Berkeley, when I tried to report cheating at the university. This came from that experience…)

The wind dances to the music of the trees,
Telling tales of a pleasant spring;
But with the belief that belief has no use,
I’ve forgotten how to sing.

In summer, the vines laden with fruit,
Frame a robin’s careless chaff;
But turning away from friends I don’t have,
I’ve forgotten how to laugh.

The autumn comes with long, hot days,
Harvest sieves and bubbling streams;
But not reaping the fruits of all my hard work,
I’ve forgotten how to dream.

Sitting in the thorns of a silent, dead rose,
Winter sobs itself quietly by;
But somewhere in the life I don’t want to lead,
I’ve forgotten how to cry.

Now no seasons are left and the world is all gone,
Nothing is there to be missed;
But along with forgetting how to forget,
I know what it is to exist.

(c) Isvari Mohan, 2012

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