I, the taster of late autumns,
hardly remembering the tobacco flower
spying the shivering hoary lake -
can sometimes hear my heartbeat.
At daybreak - only the lamp
of the old man polishing lenses
and the poet's narrow window
are still tempting the fireflies;
while the rose leans forward,
between verbs, against our engraved
arms; when silence is a swan
that has turned away from dying
and the moon is drying up her wings
like a newborn butterfly. . .