In evening-gold,
A barefoot wanderer on a stone
Casts off his body the dust of the world.
Out of the forest
Darts a bird,
Catches the last morsel of sun.

A willow on the riverbank is also there.

A road.
A field.
A quivering meadow.
Sly steps
Of hungry clouds.
Where are the hands that create wonders?

A living fiddle is also there.

So what remains for me to do at such an hour,
Oh, world mine in thousand colors?
Just
To gather in the knapsack of the wind
The red beauty
And bring it home for supper.

Solitude like a mountain is also there.