
So we saunter where crackle of pine cones touches softly 
what remains of our feet or is left of our ears; 
almost at the end of our walk, we find the ripple upon the pond 
meaningless to us now. 
O Mao Ch’iang, soon enough even our eyes will lose the sky.
Nothing, nothing stirs. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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