Of the Oldest and Purest Sunlight

My body has grown stiff with heavy sickness
and is left alone on a mountaintop to languish.
Heavy, impermeable fogs now pile around it,
its view of the whole world obliterating.
Now rains beat down like tiny sharp blades newborn,
pummeling at my body like fists forlorn.

But all at once the fogs are lifting, melting;
the tiny raindrops are evaporating.
The sun is being born in the land of its Rising,
and in the lands of its Setting, is arriving.
Pure and cleansed is its countenance,
hidden from the tiniest dust in the cosmos.

And my body, grown stiff,
is limber and healthy again,
and drinks the wine of the sun,
of the oldest and purest sunlight.