hand

translated by PLS

hand, the root of the plant says

this is not my hand.

withered stumps scattered along the bank

beside a stream no longer deemed a creek

like an old friend of oil spills

growing toward a dark direction

witnessing the existence of witnesses

the root of the plant and weeds along the waters

they, master of the hand, seem indifferent

the stumps are filled with empty holes

inside which there are grey oceans

like evenly-colored silk

today there appears the sound of breathing

snoring, including but not limited to

singing across the bank

but the fisherman goes home and tells his wife

“it’s another dead still day on the bank”

to which the wife replies

“when you speak, everything is abandoning you”

reveal the truth in the diary

— the supple universe and the sea contracting simultaneously

along with a child’s breath: among the contractions

I see light stretching towards a secret direction

as if no one knows

— indeed that’s the case

“by the time you see, everything will have withered”

there is absolute happiness in solitude

this is the truth within stumps

store the grey silk in the eyes and behold!

there’s nothing else coming out of you

sink with the house

right above time

tell the master of the hand in darkness that you are determined to say farewell to speeches

or have never reached any speech

you, together with the stumps, kids, the root of the plant and the weeds along the bank

—— you’ll hear the wife telling the fisherman

don’t let the eyes return