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!