In his vision:
The plants rest in a rocking cradle,
but the haggard hand is all blood clots
that aimlessly whips it around.
The plant threw out its seeds
and said to the wind:
‘Look what I’ve created,
a billion years is nothing when these songs are sung by hands
as ethereal and wrinkled as this grass!’
But the old man was not impressed
by this small eternity.
With pen in hand,
awkward like refuse, he wrote tonelessly:
“You are nought but a mountain of mud!”
On a mountain of mud,
a field of green dances and sways –
as one leaf falls into the shaky updraft,
one man, with the bony wind still in his lungs,
is writing feverishly in scribbles
and worthless sighs.