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.