Bu Ji Cheng

No count for these days, no count
For how far you have to go,

What stage you will reach to stop,
Or where’s the next place you’ll stay.

You will end up in the waves,
You who are made up of waves.

You may be surf to my mist,
You may break through your own mist,

But you will sink, and go on,
And there’ll be no end to waves.

I’ll float off. I’d like to thin
Like a true mist, who knows when.

It would be fine to spread out
To grow so fine you lost me,

Not like I lost you to sand,
But in air’s veils. There? No. Where?