those
who has so long been submerged
in the water of the womb-cave
now when the sun rises
would they put their lips in action
the pantograph
the wheat-plants
that has been sowed in autumn
the shyness of the houses
going away farther and farther
how much should i become glum
for those stations
on which i suppose to never put my steps
since taking birth
the same story of huggis and wrappers
i’ve told you to say good bye
to the portman
full of rust
and to make an aquarium
for the flying-fishes
with the water-moon
there may also exist
some social forestry
mr slumber
you can’t keep the good-wishes
arranged properly
so as soon as the eyes get open
the palpitations start