The Afterglow Entering Again the Deep Woods

Tinkling, tinkling, the piggy bank shakes with tinkles.

A coin drops, springs up

A silver arc of the frozen fish

The sound breaks the dawn, brings in the morning glory.

Clicking, clicking, the tricycles rolls over the watered flagstone lanes,

Morning light sets on the crown of the old honey locust trees, and blue-grey eaves.

A little waiter rubs his eyes and yawns, and lights the stove.

Birdcages hung onto the branches, women come back from the morning fair.

Days are like the paper boat in the basin,

There’s no need to weigh the anchor, people set sail in a small water area.

Visitors crowd to the narrow lanes, jade-colored flagstones basked under the sunlight,

Strings of crying from the waiters hooked up the simplest joy out of the customers.

A day up in the sky is usual but never contents with the similarity.

Mighty blue, a few sketches of clouds inked out, or later piled up,

Sunbeams thrust their swords, rains is driving from the mountain, cicadas quiet,

Crickets stop the chorus, winds from afar turn the wide polar leaves in concordance.

Lovers rest on the histories of legends and anecdotes,

Mutually respect with decorum, intimately pull and push like waves,

Or empty handed, watching the hearts withering and throbbing.

Who can love your partner, before you love your neighbors?

We talk about villages, our country that is disappearing with our elders.

How many pictures we have painted in our memories? Dreams of the childhood

How many of them still lead our present? And the murmurs of the sea,

We have been listening for so long. Each of us sinks into the meditation.

The Sunset Prayer Call sounded, clamour of lights turns dumb

Before the obscure darkness of the Mosque in the back-lane.

Men with sweats hurry up to the prayer hall to do salāt.

Visitors gone, the court in the temple returns to its tranquility.

Bugs unknown crawl over the moon-paint on the stone stele,

Autumn roses send off aroma through inking trees’ shades.

A man walked out from the prayer hall talks to the boy waiting on a stone seat.

Men listening to a call, and deliver a day’s noise.

In the depth of the night a cactus lifts up a white flower secretly,

On the rain-washed low wall snails stick out their eyes and aerials.

Nobody will change one’s elements, love is a long gaze.

The returning spiritual light will pierce through the dense jungle of the days.