All winter we’ll wander in a red wagon
With cushions of blue.
Nice and warm. With a nest of creepy kisses
Just for us two.
You shut your eyes and won’t look out the window
Where shadows lurk:
Hordes of black wolves and black demons and nightmares
Inhabit the dark.
And then in panic suddenly you feel
A little kiss, like a scared spider, crawl
Across your cheek …
You turn to me to help you find the beast,
And of course I promise to do my best,
If it takes all week …
Giant heads of gold are in the sky.
And now, far from me, my horse.
I kneel twice and cry with anguish and fear.
Death follows me.
I look to the sky where my gold knife reigns
with its blue queen and I tell my dreams.
Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Chou. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things.