The moon far off a ruined rock
only on earth are vicissitudes suffered.
Each day begins as a new curve on the horizon,
spring is far behind
and brocaded autumn,
strewn with red leaves
and chrysanthemums
so bare and gloomy at low-water’s edge,
is fading now.
Capped waves break inland
with a wrath
of who knows what:
the longing of millions?
