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