What I see is surely only a mirage when on one spring morning a white forest seeps out of the pores of the hot black asphalt. But you who never lie scatter thousands of birds in the sky to make me believe. “What you hear is what you see.” But I only hear 305 different days. And the hands of a clock that turn this way and that. “Are we talking about the weather?” You nod happily and extend a hand through the branches to catch the tail of a star shooting five meters above us. “Here,” you say, “for you to scatter around the forest.” So we walk together to the edge where everything ends. Forty seven to the right, forty six to the front, and back again, sprinkling star seeds that grow into paper chairs, tables, flowers in clay pots, people, and a wing of an airplane. “We will take good care of everything.” But the shadows lean west, before the rain has the chance to settle. And you will not believe that the story has past. “Are we talking about the weather?” The weather is a complicated matter. What I see is surely only a mirage when the cloud erases everything empty. But you who never lie catch the wind and stuff it in my ear. It whispers: “…long ago, long ago…” -- translated by Eliza Vitri Handayani