Jun Fujita

A FRAIL hepatica

Shyly holds its fragrance

Beneath the fresh morning dew.

So, Elizabeth.

The air is still

And grasses are wet;

Thread-like rain

Screens the dunes.

III

The storm has passed,

The sky washed clear.

Rain-drops on twigs

Reflect the moon.

A sloping sand plain

Fades into pale night air;

A black tree skeleton

Casts no shadow.

The brook has gone,

Left the lifeless bed behind;

A lonely bird

Seeks the water in vain.

On a country road

An old woman walks;

The autumn sun

Casts her shadow long and thin.

VII

Across the frozen marsh

The last bird has flown;

Save a few reeds

Nothing moves.

VIII

Graves are frozen.

A few leaves

Stood, danced

And have gone.