Song of death at dawn

Little boat
on the sea
riding out the storm
of the east.

When you become
a flooded river,
would you know
where to ford it?

Prisoner who fled
from the slow look,
finds no rest
in any refuge.

Mounds of stone mark
the poverty
of this dream of mine
of rain in the field.

If the top millstone
stops, could you,
the lower one,
turn perhaps?

Memory of sandalwood,
so velvety.
Oh, the distant
snow of hands!

From the waiting
of sleeplessness,
in more fear
of nightfall,
the lady of the dawn
comes to fetch me.