In a dark park under an alder
At the midnight dim
A white swan out of paddle
Hided its head in wings.
I\’m — memory, I\’m — the hearing,
At the midnight dim
A white swan out of paddle
Hided its head in wings.
I\’m — memory, I\’m — the hearing,
You\’re with me — a sad light shadow,
Here I see — that\’s your footprint,
Which was washed by a storm of years.
In the shades of the mournful alder
There\’s a sweet odour\’s smell,
In the mat foliage a soul there
Still is chirring, waits.
But after the storm of the ardent years
Everything seems like a ghost, just a rave,
Everything passed, all, that had been,
All had gone into the pond\’s haze.
June 1909
