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Senlin, A Biography: Part 02: His Futile Preoccupations - 03

I walk to my work, says Senlin, along a street

Superbly hung in space.

I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel

I tap them into place.

But is god, perhaps, a giant who ties his tie

Grimacing before a colossal glass of sky?

These stones are heavy, these stones decay,

These stones are wet with rain,

I build them into a wall today,

Tomorrow they fall again.

Does god arise from a chaos of starless sleep,

Rise from the dark and stretch his arms and yawn;

And drowsily look from the window at his garden;

And rejoice at the dewdrop sparkeling on his lawn?

Does he remember, suddenly, with amazement,

The yesterday he left in sleep, his name,

Or the glittering street superbly hung in wind

Along which, in the dusk, he slowly came?

I devise new patterns for laying stones

And build a stronger wall.

One drop of rain astonishes me

And I let my trowel fall.

The flashing of leaves delights my eyes,

Blue air delights my face;

I will dedicate this stone to god

And tap it into its place.