Classic Poem

Another turn around the sun,
and dreams in endless fields have started.
The woodcutter stares at pheasant plumage
and ponders in the haze—
the tail warps crescent
and yearns for a distant place.
Here, an illusion of God knows what design,
a woman's winter letter:
writing done with a hatchet's head
or a self-consolation of a pitiful man,
these words have come again,
drifting over infinity's gentle waves!