Dreaming in another language; Open your palm,
Open the box of the tree, open the waist-high sawdust,
The world suddenly appeared. This is her fallen leaves,
The player's mind illuminates the game.
They wait by the bridge and sometimes move forward.
A little, sometimes flinch, sometimes turn over, always
Arrange yourself in a pattern and don't touch them.
Their survival is always spent at home;
The child's cinder from the frosted door
Come out, look at the lights, face a piece of confusion.
The train trembled on the warm earth,
The child and his bucket were thrown out of the car,
Like a prominent pattern. Humans have no chess players. . .