The moon rises. The red cubs rolling
In the ferns by the rotten oak
Stare over a marsh and a meadow
To the farm’s white wisp of smoke.
A spark burns, high in heaven.
Deer thread the blossoming rows
Of the old orchard, rabbits
Hop by the well-curb. The cock crows
From the tree by the widow’s walk;
Two stars in the trees to the west,
Are snared, and an owl’s soft cry
Runs like a breath through the forest.
Here too, though death is hushed, though joy
Obscures, like night, their wars,
The beings of this world are swept
By the Strife that moves the stars.
You brothers, who are mine,
Poor people, near and far,
Longing for every star,
Dream of relief from pain,
You, stumbling dumb
At night, as pale stars break,
Lift your thin hands for some
Hope, and suffer, and wake,
Poor muddling commonplace,
You sailors who must live
Unstarred by hopelessness,
We share a single face.
Give me my welcome back.
Lampwick turned up, the room glows white.
The looms moves easily all night long
as feet work and push below.
Nimbly the shuttle flies in and out,
wide or narrow, big or small, sliding in snug.
Long or short, it glides out smoothly.
Girls who do it right, let it soak.
Here is another translation of the same poem:
Light turned on, it is found such a white,
The stalk moves slightly and repeatedly all night.
Pushing with the feet, but lightly release,
Shuttle passing through brings joy and ease.
Large or narrow, small or big they all fit,
Long and short, size and form so be it.
To make it best, girl needs to soak it with care .
The cloth color won’t fade before three whole years.
Peekaboo we used to play;
my hands covered my face,
your hands covered your face,
incredible, there we were gone.
That is what we play now, your
hands on my face and my hands
on your eyes. Incredible
how we disappear into each other.