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

one petal

of the precious lily