I've looked back so many times. Into a blur of photographs, into an old house. Crowds of loves and selves I have not been able to bring along! How many more times will I have to leave? The present is a shore for refugees.
Mist, wind, and rain have travelled to these hills from distant places. The line that separates the heavens from the earth has almost disappeared. The firs keep pointing to the sky though there is no star.