In solitude I silently closed
The brushwood lattice-gate, facing
The setting sun whose shine is as vast
and boundless as this moment.
As the cranes have found themselves homes
Everywhere
in the pine trees,
Visitors seldom come to my grass-woven door.
Bamboos of green are newly coated
by a thin layer of powders,
while the lotuses of red
have just peeled her old dress.
Smoke and flames are looming out of the darkness
from the ferry afar,
enveloping the silhouettes of the ladies upon their return
from harvesting water-chestnuts.
