Rain, coming softly at dawn, softens the dreamer's longing
Wintery watery blue-gray as cotton cloth
Called daba in their land, strong and rough
Merging with morning skies, cotton-gray clouds crowding;
Lemons in full bloom, fleur-d'-orange candles burning;
Smell, almost tangible, rises with currents of air
Stronger than that in July, of dung in banana-fields, choking
Stench wrapping houses, creeping in backyards, swimming in warm fog
Sackcloth houses of cardboard people asleep;
Dreamers hear rain dripping, skipping from leaf to leaf
Whispering.

Whispering to his companions, real, faithful
Standing by him till the time ends, intangible
Warrior proud and dark talking to swords,
Come and take me
Wounds on my body will smile as my love's red lips
Pain as the cruel words of that red lips
As if she were with me not him
Spirit of mountains, his friend, shy and courteous
Hiding his ugly face with his kimono sleeve
Pale moon over the colorless sea
Before sunrise.

Say, I wonder, all those I left behind
Say, when we are all dead
Will we still talk to each other in silence
Will they touch water of Rivers with my lips
Will I feel wrath of the fire with their hands
Sun, rising slowly, insolent fireball
Burns us before we think of answer
Outlines of shadows in stone
Stay for a while.

Sun, rising slowly, lights with its carrot rays
Fleur-d'-orange, incense of this shameless spring;
Boughs burning candles, best drug in trade,
Mark time to refresh stale loves
To re-marry every year again.