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Go with the water. 

In a small boat. On an immense seemingly shallow surface. In a place where there is only an endless flow. 

Rise. On the prow. As the boat somehow enlarges vertically and holds you up high above the wave.

Row. With the oar. But there is only one oar. But it’s ok somehow, as it seems the boat is not only driven by the oar.

Tour. Inside the boat. But there’s nothing inside, except a familiar statue of Avalokiteshvara at one end. 

And the boat reaches, in shades of cyan and teal, a wooden wharf.

Everything turns upside down. 

The other side of water is a sea of clouds. And all is in shades of cyan and blue, in a bright tone.

The heavy torrent of clouds below waist makes you not realize what holds you and moves you along.

As things slow down, a majestic pavilion appears from some distance. 

Then in reach. It’s a complex one. 

You see the corridors of the palace, or palaces connected together, are filled with treacherous and drifting clouds. 

You see the distant fog and clouds flow among the green tiles and cornices clustered among the palaces. 

You see the tiles are stacked like waves, and the agate bricks double shadows. 

And among the smoke something moving fast are disappearing which you could not catch. 

And echoed in the space is music of wind chimes that seems to come from nowhere, and that seems to be the way since time.

And a tomb is in the open place, under soft light.

In the center are sprinkled with little, white flowers.

Chendi Xu is a poet; he’s a member of the National Association of Watch and Clock Collectors, where he draws inspiration on time for his poetry.