Willows sway
weaving moonlight
with cloud-mist;
"whip-poor-will" cries,
yet I, without tears.
Back to my
birthplace…
No more, the sawdust mountains
of which we were kings.
Gone the time of innocence.
Where are you, dear playmates?
In the city
mall,
walking toward an old woman
that I finally
recognize with amazement:
it is a mirrored myself.
