The road behind me, before me, endless mountains high, above the mysterious road the sun fiery. The horizon burns in the distance... I cast aside pilgrim's staff, in the endless sea. I'm launching a paper boat. The sun is already near the west; I sigh after it no return for the pilgrim. The sun disappears from the cliffs, the wind roars, the wind blows, tracks lead into the distance, into the distance. Where will I stay for the night? Weariness creeps without ceasing, like waves on the sea's surface and now I don't know how words hurt when the day dies.
