Below the mountain
beside a field
alone I look into a lone well.

In the well, moons glow
where clouds flow down opened skies
before pale blue winds,
and there is autumn.

And a young man.

Somehow despising
that young man
I turn away.

Turn away, reflect,
perhaps begin to pity that young man.

Returned, looking in as before
is a young man.

Again somehow despising
that young man
I turn away.

Turn away, reflect,
perhaps begin to remember . . .

In a well, moons glow
where clouds flow down opened skies
before pale blue winds.
Autumn is there,
and like a pale memory,