Mutability
The wind shakes the mists
Making them quiver
With faint drum-tones of thunder.
Out of the crane-haunted mists of autumn,
Blue and brown
Rolls the moon.
There was a city living here long ago,
Of all that city
There is only one stone left half-buried in the marsh,
With characters upon it which no one now can read.
Despair
Despair hangs in the broken folds of my garments;
It clogs my footsteps,
Like snow in the cherry bloom.