• On Night
  • At night,
    when the silver moonstream makes a lake of limitless plain,
    I spread the sails of my thoughts in the path of the wind.

    At night,
    when no sound rises from the reed beds deep in the ponds,
    I joyously voice my bright hope like a sunshaft.

    At night,
    when songs are sung of hopelessness,
    I await from far off the sun's lip scorching
    warmly kissing the neighbor's rooftop.

    At night,
    when a sorrow congeals in the cold of the garden,
    I listen for the death coughs in the groan-rattle of my decaying
    chain-hands.