still not cold
On a windless Sunday,
the sand of time soars from the distant sky.
They make a small sound like powder snow and
touch the earth softly.
I'm walking naked with a white map in my hand
through the snowfields when I get down.
There's a light blue park with no one, Abandoned Auditorium
Upside-down steel tower,
Wind without sound
and The sand of time is dancing in the bird-free sky.
It's still not cold
Because time is stroking the soul.