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奥马哈一屋，

六十年未动，

如一枚静印，

钤浮世之外。

它不大，

却藏光、纳静、载梦。

一桌、一椅、一窗光影，

一灯、一书、一念寰宇。

金流如潮，

他坐于其间，

饮可乐，翻报纸，打桥牌，

如观水行舟，不随波逐流。

朝拜者问：

何以亿万身，栖于寸室？

翁不语，

流年镌响：

一与无限。

榻前苍穹变幻，

已忘去来。

唯一屋，

记得。

A house in Omaha

Untouched for sixty years,

Like a silent seal

Stamped outside the drifting world.

It is not large,

Yet it holds light, welcomes stillness, carries dreams.

A table, a chair, a window of shifting light and shadow,

A lamp, a book, a mind that roams the universe.

While tides of gold surge,

He sits within,

Drinking cola, reading newspapers, playing bridge—

As if watching boats drift by,

Unaffected by the current.

Pilgrims ask:

With billions to your name, why dwell in this humble space?

The old man says nothing.

Passing years etch echo:

One and infinity.

Before the couch, the skies shift.

The past and future long forgotten.

Only a house

Remembers.