Your light marble statue has no veins and its eyelids only open

after ceremony, a chant that you have lost your breath for. Even

your etymology is unclear, ruler-fathers having lost their head-

cloths. Green identity is now essentially red, for clay. An imprint

dedicated to a new father figure— a dedicatory reminder that one is

not one’s own. Your palm-leaf manuscript is now printed on white

paper. Faces resemble another’s heart-shape, while robes are now

made in China. Twelve rice paddies later and you become a new

restaurant façade, following four seasons and the logic of the menu.