In sultry scorching noon of summer
When the lane before our house would wear the most desolate look,
Oft that paper wheel seller would walk by,
A score and half paper wheels stuck at the end of a pole
Would make a stirring noise, whirling in the hot listless air;
I would think of the paper wheel seller as the most blessed soul
A magician perhaps, a liberated man,
Ignorant of the heat of Indian summer.