Senlin Sat Before Us And We Heard Him. He Smoked His Pipe Before Us And We Saw Him. Was He Small, With Reddish Hair, Did He Light His Pipe With A Meditative Stare And A Twinkling Flame Reflected In Blue Eyes? 'I Am Alone': Said Senlin; 'In A Forest Of Leaves The Single Leaf That Creeps And Falls. The Single Blade Of Grass In A Desert Of Grass That None Foresaw And None Recalls. The Single Shell That A Green Wave Shatters In Tiny Specks Of Whiteness On Brown Sands . . . How Shall You Understand Me With Your Hearts, Who Cannot Reach Me With Your Hands? . . .' The City Dissolves About Us, And Its Walls Are The Sands Beside A Sea. We Plunge In A Chaos Of Dunes, White Waves Before Us Crash On Kelp Tumultuously, Gulls Wheel Over Foam, The Clouds Blow Tattered, The Sun Is Swallowed . . . Has Senlin Become A Shore? Is Senlin A Grain Of Sand Beneath Our Footsteps, A Speck Of Shell Upon Which Waves Will Roar? . . . Senlin! We Cry . . . Senlin! Again . . . No Answer, Only The Crash Of Sea On A Shell-White Shore. Yet, We Would Say, This Is No Shore At All, But A Small Bright Room With Lamplight On The Wall; And The Familiar Chair Where Senlin Sat, With Lamplight On His Hair.