Is it an enormous tree or a humble man I see?
Purity draining into the dusty autumn leaves,
Or an exhausted elderly limping on his third leg?
It is source and extended cables both required for a life,
The two are none but a blurry vision I have foreseen,
Incessant distorted images infiltrating a lot of memories.
I accepted the existence of the truth and its spatial loci,
Others still consider me too naïve to seek such an element,
Thus, the dust, from this path to my face, kept its promise.