Poetry

Water has its own mind. 
Becomes a rival 
in the crack of a rock. 
 
If the moon cries; 
it becomes dew 
on the slender grass. 
 
The maiden love, 
you will find it on 
bed at night. 
 
And when the priest 
becomes featureless 
it goes in the eyes of a god. 
 
When death smiles, 
it fills the glass 
you drink it like elixir.