We, the people, live in this field that goes on and on. There is no fence, no border, no end. Flatness and crops. Rays from the sun light up our faces.
Whether it was the sound of rifle bolts
Slapping into place,
Or the click of a pistol being cocked,
I hope there was defiance
In the eyes of Frederico Garcia Lorca
That last second before death.
May there always be defiance
When one of us, the people,
Faces the fascist.
Gray sky, wind. The first rains of a new winter. What is that to the prisoner, locked up tight in a cold cell?
Be happy; without reason.
A student, filled with emotion and crying, implored, "Why is there so much suffering?" Suzuki Roshi replied, "No reason.”
Hope and fear cannot alter the seasons.