First there is
a mirror:
It gives back
pale whiteness;
this is well.
I do not wish
to see myself
older
than the
mountain.


But now
I see a child.
It is I running,
swiftly running,
and now
the image
smiles,
all innocence.

I see a lotus
floating
in my father’s
garden pool.
But this blossom
has eyes.
This blossom
is myself
softly drifting…

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