The clouds are drifting rapidly, rushing
Across the bowl of dusk iced silver
Full with the bracing smell of fruit
A horse makes its way step-by-step
Between the cypresses and obsidian-like sun trees
A farmer rides the horse
It goes without saying that this farmer who approaches
Apace with this nebulous horse of the huge head
Finds half his body fusing
With a clump of trees and its silver-atom surroundings
He is quite amenable himself to this fusing
The obedient bristly Nambu horse's head droops down
Dwarfed on its way here to a black Mt. Matsukura
A speck of composite plants...the dahlia
The plan for its electrification
Is truly the jewel of September
I will present a green tomato
To the Advisor of the Electric Light
This scene goes beyond deep translucence
Thanks to his light these soggy roads
And handrails newly coated in creosote
And two wires shine out of sham nihility
The water below thunders along
The mass of hair on a black swan's breast glides on
The apples and the bracing silvered bowl of dusk
((ah...the moon is out))
This is the radiantly pointed quarter moon in a silver fabric
Polished on truly sharp autumn dust
And the angles of crystal-rimmed clouds
The handrails on the bridge are still dripping with raindrops
This whole place is simply seething with nostalgia
With the mild water flowing, gloomy body of glue
I am prepared to meet my death
In this absolutely translucent landscape
At the hands of the fierce assassin who broke away
From the rough andesitic rock face of Mt. Matsukura and Goken Woods
(after all I'm the one who cut down that tree)
(the peaks of the cedars pierce black holes in the round of the sky)
The wind carries whistles half rent
(a sorry organ of dual sensibility)
And I take in the young grass of ancient India
The water there that strikes the cliff
Flies off on tangents like scallions
The wind blows with such a thoroughness
That the surface of the halfmoon itself is swept clean
No wonder that my umbrella
Collapsed on the wet planks of the bridge
In a few dying flaps
Mt. Matsukura Mt. Matsukura tall in the pointy dark bismuthic fiend sky
The electric lights are now quite hot
A wind blowing at this rate
Certainly signals the first wind of Kalpa
A sliver of motif in the break of day that floats in the sky
Electric wires and a strip of terrifying chalcedonic cloud
That's where the vast unpredictable blue star surfaces
(love's numberless redemption)
My coat flutters
With the fluttering of those terrifying bullrush-coloured clouds
(turn on the music box, turn it on!)
The moon bifurcates without warning
A blanket of blind black haloed cloud drops on the face of light
(be still be still, Goken Woods
be still though your trees have been cut out of you)