When I carefully strip off the words I am wearing, my nonexistence is proven and the existence of my root as well. In the gentle evening of the summer, which is tired with the festival, the water in the pond is clear and the fish are at the bottom. Holding leftover wreaths in their languid arms, trees are already dreaming. The last bird has flown by, holding a black sound in its beak. Farewell, summer, quicken your pace as you go.
Stars fall silently into the water.
Dead Sun Dripping glistening drops of light, the child has crawled up into a world not yet wrinkled. The child turns a somersault. The hourglass flips over. New time begins to tick. The child picks up stars and throws them like stones.