This turf is not like turf:
It is a smooth dry carpet of velvet,
Embroidered with brown patterns of needles and cones.
These trees are not like trees:
They are innumerable feathery pagoda-umbrellas,
Stiffly ungracious to the wind,
Teetering on red-lacquered stems.
In the evening I listen to the winds’ lisping,
While the conflagrations of the sunset flicker and clash behind me,
Flamboyant crenelations of glory amid the charred ebony boles.