The sad history of mankind
that wetted the traveler's sleeves
is blurred in his pale notebook.
Perhaps the modern man's melancholy
comes from the amplitude of logic;
the joy of hanging from a cliff
the ancient man's atavism
only is the fear of cruel dreams every night.
The sap of the violet torn at the tip of a rock
darkens the woman traveler's diary.
The fields have grown invisible.
The glitter of lightning from the wheatfield
falls in the cup, and the liquor turns into a spider.
Tomorrow too it will rain
until the marrow of the hollow stone in the temple begins to drip.
In the broken mud fence there may be talk of
sowing but I can't hear it POPOI .
There may be plum blossoms but I can't see them POPOI .
Tomorrow too someone in glasses
and with a camera will cross before you.