A Lily Standing On the Pathway Between March and April

The sun peeks his face out from the passing wind still chilly and cold, and in this air the tree branches stretch their arms to hold the sun as if sails on the deep and gray sky The sun that is out of reach of a hand may be a hope; no, it ought to be a hope One night I saw a wayfarer, becoming a moonbeam, going toward April stepping on the footmarks March has left behind Although he has gone through so many hills and high waters with a knapsack on his back that was full with the countless sentiments he put in it for pity’s sake, the sack was emptied; for the lapse of time makes things wear and tear his garment was worn to rags, and when the wind passes through it penetrates the garment to chill the bone The deep anxiety he is unable to shake off, and therefore, reflected on the running water murmuring through the field as ripples of moonbeam, which is not from the fleeting of time or his sufferings while he was walking among the foes, but because he is sorry for and worries about friends he has to leave behind The friends, not many in number shared his happiness at the time of banqueting, surrounding the table though plain and simple, abundance in God; at the time counting the falling stars lying on a stone pillow by the gap between rocks. The friends, not in damnation but in endurance and warmhearted understanding, talked about better day to come while burning the passions in the bone fire on a day when they were wet and shivering in early spring drizzle For the days he was with his friends were too short, it caused him an embarrassment in counting the days, yet they were unforgettable moments of joyous and happy experiences As he walked through the field with friends he talked about tomorrow standing on the hill top side by side, he asked them to pray for him, sitting on the sands by the water he sighed for he has to leave the friends, the sweet and bitter memories behind Nonetheless, he cannot just stand by a roadside as an emotionless stone, he crosses the hill under the shade of a waning moon, and when the humble hearted teary-eyed wanderer blooms as a lily on the other side of the hill in dawning, the sunray fall on the lily on the dew as hope to those who remember him, as happiness to the friends he left behind, as the covenant of the Lord to all who trust in him