Upon this path of inclined stones
the pallid moon our hurrying shadows throws
the broken headed mountain bows its head in night-plume mists
and grass and gossamer go grey with dews.
The moon has chased the golden crow to bed
a black arch spans the hillside path ahead,
beyond this point the eastern mountain lies
where smoke the unquenched candles of a quietened world.
Now wait and watch and you may see
of the precious lily