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Moon
Even an ancient vision has its moment of birth.
Birdless skies,
alien and fortified.
Opposite your window, in the moonlit night,
stands a city submerged in the crickets’ weeping.
And when you see that the way still searches the wayfarer
and the moon
still tops the cypress spear,
you say–My Lord, are all these things still here?
Is it still permitted to whisper them greetings?
From their pools, the waters gaze back at us.
The tree hushes
in the red of catkins.
Never remove from me, oh Lord,
the grief of your immense playthings.
Translated by M. Salomon
