Wicker chairs, little flies,
So many stories, so many lies,
Little flies—tell me where you’ve been
Tell me what you’ve seen,
Of those straw-hat dollies
On the wicker chairs, unwither’d.

Or the little blue umbrellas
On which sit the black-feather’d pigeons.
Cruel pigeons, who refuse to tell me stories
Only mutter in their gibberish tongues.

I was scared of your groans
Scared also of the flies (who visit the dead)
Scared that someone would steal my dollies
Or they would get up and walk away.

Until I realized
That the bamboos too were dead
Dead yet waiting
They couldn't get up and go,
Like my dollies, like me.