At evening, when we walk on dark trails,

our bleached selves appear before us.

Thirsty

we drink from the pond’s white water,

the sweetness of our mournful childhood.

Weary, we rest beneath the elderberry

to behold the dawning gulls.

Spring clouds rise above the town’s dark thoughts—

mute, the monks’ nobler days.

As I took your tiny hands

your round eyes gently broke upon me.

This was long ago.

And yet, when darker songs descend upon the soul,

you appear—a whiteness—in your friend’s autumn landscape.