The Congress of the Dead

Once upon a time, there was a poet.
This poet lived by the name of the trees.
Every fifth day, this poet would drink of the trees' leaves in water.
This is what came from those writings.

What written here dances offbeat.
Seven inkblots draw out our words.
An ink pen clashes with light metal:
A minor glory is found in a potato.

Where I look beneath my tables, I find nothing.
Where is the parchment which I require?
Where I search in cabinets, only cobwebs flutter.
Where is my canvas which I should desire?

The sun's light passes through the treetop.
Walking in a park, I tread lightly on stones.
I raise my head to see the beautiful rays.
Indeed, the eyes cannot bear that directed flame.