SUNG TO THE AIR: "THE MANTZŬ LIKE AN IDOL"

The trees in the level forest stand in rows and rows, The mist weaves through them. The jade-green of the cold hillside country hurts one's heart. Night colour drifts into the high cupola. In the cupola, a man grieves. I stand—stand—on the jade steps, doing nothing. The birds are flying quickly to roost. There is the road I should follow if I were going home. Instead, for me, the "long" rest-houses alternate with the "short" rest-houses.