Guided by signposts wary from smoke, but still standing,
I take the path on which every tree is a teacher, rocks are
dense with philosophy; history declines, ancestors rest.

There are two floors. On the top floor I am singing wonderfully.
Then I walk down steps to the ground floor where people dying
from various diseases have been placed on stretchers. One is
disfigured; another says, There’ll be a cure for us in about fifty
years. They all laugh. I think: One thread holds us all together.

Upstream,
walking with this dream,
toes grip, ankles bend in.