In this country there is rarely a fierce hurricane

That easily destroys that which has taken

generations to create

Here, all things move towards their own dispersal, 

Trees covered with mustard seeds

As a cold front approaches.

Tonight the cheerless moon

Shines on us all for good or ill

Some people are enthralled by shadows

Penumbras, glints, glimpses, as am I,

But others conceal their secret griefs hastily

And pretend that all is well, little knowing

That the glooms of November

Can call on us at any time of year

That suits the moon's spreading pall.