Snow

I fold a letter from the back, it’s whiter on this side, a good thing
that man doesn’t like to write on both sides. I fold and fold it
again, then fold it diagonally into a cone, then cut it with a small
pair of scissors, cut it and poke it, then

I’ve always thought snow is made this way: I open the cut-out letter,
it’s a good thing that man’s handwriting is so light that it
doesn’t show through, white, spread out, a six-petalled snowflake lies
on a yellow palm of hand.

Yet in the sky three thousand kilometres above or even higher, a
group of angels are at their wits’ end when they are faced with the
littering bodies on a big square below, and as the temperature sud-
denly drops below zero, their arguments and sighs gradually crys-
tallize and fall one by one.

SNOW