Among seven grasses of autumn:
Gutei holds up one finger.
A bird sings.
Ancient light rustles from green torches of cryptomeria.
Crows fly for hours.
Water pours from the upper lakes all night.
Out of sleep, a dark universe slowly ripens.
At the close of the ninth month,
A great wind arrives in ghostdance
of untroubled leaves…
I should abandon public life
while the color yet remains.