MID-DAY
The light beats upon me. I am startled— a split leaf crackles on the paved floor— I am anquished—defeated.
A slight wind shakes the seed-pods— my thoughts are spent as the black seeds. My thoughts tear me, I dread their fever. I am scattered in its whirl. I am scattered like the hot shrivelled seeds.
The shrivelled seeds are spilt on the path— the grass bends with dust, the grape slips under its crackled leaf: yet far beyond the spent seed-pods, and the blackened stalks of ming, the poplar is bright on the hill, the poplar spreads out, deep-rooted among trees.
O poplar, you are great among the hill-stones, while I perish on the path among the crevices of the rocks.