On a seesaw at one corner of the playground,
a six-year-old girl and a woman of seventy sit facing one another.
When, on tiptoe, someone hangs a light upon an old flowering tree,
the murmur of the evening river gathers in the western sky.
The hour when only young saplings remain, gathering in their shadows.
From the sky above seedless flower stalks, great flakes of snow descend,
and the seesaw becomes a rusted handle.
A time that belongs to nothing, to no one, seems to pass by
like an old postman.
Thousands of first skies descend, slowly and long.
