Countless things escape easily out of me,
As if a breeze blows through fingers.
There were some floatages,
Having settled on the sand
After drift.
I pick up a broken piece of pencil.
In the dry air, quietly,
My head burns, my hair burns.
Lao-tze!
What is more inflammable than head or hair?
As long as man does not move,
The horizon
Means to be blind.
Solitude, which reminds me of an old woman,
Eating a peanut, alone in the dead of night,
Runs at full speed on a white bicycle,
Scattering a handful of ashes.
A crab shows its face out of the pit.
A crab puts its face into the pit.
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