In silence a knife is being sharpened.
Though the sun is already sinking, it is still being sharpened.
The back and the front tightly placed,
the whetting water changed, it is being sharpened again.
What on earth is intended to be made?
As though without knowing even that,
concentrating the mood of the moment in his brow,
behind green leaves, the man sharpens the knife.
Bit by bit this man's sleeve tears.
The mustache of this man becomes white.
Resentment? Necessity? A vacant mind?
This man is simply endless.
Is he pursuing the nth degree?