GINSENG a pair of golden hands holds up a bundle of polished red stones if some trespasser comes to dig the root I will never see those hands again so I take the ginseng myself and move it to a bed in the shade near the house prepared as the books say to do with rotted leaves the root in my hand looks like a plump little man so fast asleep his limbs dangle from him and the stalk and leaves are like a dream rising from his head that night I again dream I am a thief I escape safely with the gold in my hand across the dark plain to a range of nought where nothing pursues where there is no dream no dreamer a sleep that has been emptied even of anyone to say the word sleep