An old sight too has its moment of birth.
A birdless sky
Strange and set apart.
Facing your window on the moonlit night stands
A city plunged in crickets' tears.


And when you see a road still watching for a wayfarer
And the moon
Is on the cypress spear,
You say: 'My God, are all these things still out there?
May one whisper them a greeting?'


From their pools the waters gaze upon us.
The tree is at rest
In a flush of catkin blossoms.
Never shall the sorrow of Your great playthings
Be plucked from me, O our God.