The fine grass
by the riverbank stirs in the breeze;
the tall mast
in the night is a lonely sliver.
all across the vast plain;
the moon bobs
in the flow of the great river.
has not made a name for me;
now age and sickness
have cost me the post I was given.
what do I resemble?
A lone gull
lost between earth and heaven.
© 2004 by Keith Holyoak (translator)
First printed in Candelabrum Poetry Magazine (2004)