When the morning dew still clung,
she would always pass by me carrying a bamboo basket.

The little flowers in the basket swayed and swayed,
as though they were laughing at me, this rotting stump.

Until one day, the basket carried the flowers away to the sky.
No one ever kicked the moss growing on me again.

Later, they dug open the ground,

five feet beneath where I stood—

found a few mud-stained, broken petals.