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)