wolves of music weave their way at a run
hawthorns wheeze with clandestine laughter

turning a new leaf, tide's out
young ship-captains high up on balconies
look far away through telescopes

east and west
a single fruit cut into halves

beneath a tree grown from the pit I once spit out
I've hung nets to
trap birds, and waited how many years

TRANSLATED BY DAVID HINTON