I sit, I wish
    for the glistening moon pools
          to sprinkle down my way.
                 Dreamy starry sky,
                    and the soft combing breeze
                      sings sweet lullabies
                    to the indigo trees.
              Sing the same to me,
           and I'll go where you go;
            river so wide,
          wider's my window!

           Now dance as you've done
        so many times before;
      embrace the morning sun's
       broad rays on your shore.
                                                         Far banks shall appear
                                                 with the coming of April,
                                               and strike out I will
                                            through the dusty rock passes
                                       through mountains of yellow
                                      and bridges of gold -- until
                                          I gain the city of friends,
                                             lamplights and streetlights
                                                    ­   and buslights and doors
                                                           ­       will be closed.

                                                        ­Gone, then, are the wishes
                                                 and wonders and wants,
                                      the things that I hoped for
                              a long time ago.

                     The trill of the strings
                           (my only respite
                                from keen madness
                                      or a tantō
                                      to wish me goodnight)
                                 rises on palm-tops,
                            floats in cool grasses,
                       gives purpose my soul.
                                  So much peace I find
                                     in warm charming moonlight....

                             Tomorrow, concern may put your course
                                       on a laxed and lumberous way,
                                  great river of the dying day,
                          but as long as my will goes on,
           and the wonderful will of the Maker,
     those fleet-footed brigands
won't catch me, for I am
      faster than they are.

...Calming storm,
     you stirrer and squeezer,
       present most of the time that I need you:
                Set my mind,
                   for all its vain attempts;
               make me relent,
                 and I won't deceive you.
                        Till then, I'll be leaving you soon,
                            but know my April blush
                               is the same color as in June,
                              and the fabric of all that I hope for
                            is the cloth of the comforting moon.