Yes, it does seem that I have climbed innumerable levels of clouds
to land from a strange world and yet fearlessly walk along
the path of moist red tiles, seeking, to confirm
that on the road ahead a small two-storied library will float up
before my eyes in the moonlight; when the rain is over
the evening breeze will fan us where we sit cross-legged to listen to lectures
by the water’s edge, fanning away all our concerns and worries, cinnabar and
ferules and the discipline that might otherwise be forgotten
and the rules we have been forced to obey ─ under the old pine tree a volume
thread-bound in a yellow case that will never fade, its fragrance never evaporate.
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