A tornado am I,
A disturbance in the heavens,
A knot in the atmosphere,
A whirlpool of emotions and thoughts

My pleasures and pains,
Swirling clouds of vigor in my body.
They come and go,
Ebb and flow.

How am I to put a stake in the ground
And claim that I love or hate
When it is all a passing whim?
Where is this “I” that strives to learn
To vanish well and yet be so stern?
Is not this “I”
The very center that tries to die?

Such a wonder this “I”.
Should it have any power at all,
Let it transform itself
From this rush of wind,
this torrential wall,
Into a gentle breeze,
Almost forgettable,
That tenderly reminds the earth
That it is there,
Like a whisper
Uttered so softly

No true artist expresses beauty. Rather, when beauty touches him, he rejoices and the expression comes forth simultaneously. That is, the inherent paradoxical dichotomy of sadness and joy is the expression of beauty.