It should be spring now. The young leaves are pristine. She should be a girl, just blossoming. Teardrops like dew cling to her cheeks. In a land of foreign paper she has prematurely aged making her untimely run back and forth between tragedy and pride. Rosary beads on their string -- under a tree bent by its overabundant fruit. Whose body scrapes the flagstone? Whose hands are twisting the beads? This belongs to your previous life, free and alone, a kasaya over the boiling body of dust. The string of beads is the same. Why won't you pick them up? What are you clutching in your hands?