Tundra

This landscape is set in by a dream, as it goes on.
The master shows up in a green coat, handing his album speaks out. 
"We have already developed all kinds of advanced studies". 

but of what, exactly? Advanced studies on what? 
Master? And he walks away laughing;
his spoken thoughts can be seen as whirling objects on his hands.

Before there was no foundation, nothing; only those hands and our feet to walk.
 
Since then we call this building up, toughen up. 
Oh yes, why not? But only in a random, a provisional, a transitory way 

──and the Chinese "bambooes" are then thrown out──: 
the sticks form a subtle, irregular and beautiful equilibrium; 
a play of instantaneous challenges, enigmas, and games.

As your hand goes over in the air
all those horses are running through the beach
and the fireworks open up over the black shadow on the sea;
 
but all that sound has stopped. They are picked up again, 
and with a blow of hands they get thrown once more.
 
Yet something insisted, from inside: "what follows is the little day" ,
and I am not wondering why it did so.
 
This is a kind of tundra,
It's a plain without trees; a place with no trees of thought.

It is the outdoor.  Where everything seems to be alive, and as we are listening and observe.
We listen and observe large oscillations of all kinds. 
many short seasons, 
where all is made from the remains of the previous life.

"Advanced" that was that word before. Perhaps only in the sense of large explorations 
── especially irregular exploration──. 

Detachment. Attainment.

This web, this tundra of thought, is also our nutrient,

this weather is also preparing the most imminent outcome. 
This presentiment of something 
This resentiment of everything ──form a whole── 
That unthought, that which became immediate.