I’m sick of talking to the wind.
I’d rather risk exiling language,
To bear mugwort’s hot insults,
To bear pervasive sandstorms,
To bury the roots of plants,
And their soundless veins.
Let’s keep our meditation
Forget negotiation with the earth
Losing the foot of language
Winter scenery with the remaining dead leaves
Border towns and wilderness were first arrived
The day-to-day show is still
Existence and Disappearance