Look round, brown moon, brown bird, as you rise to fly,

Look round at the head and zither

On the ground.

Look round you as you start to rise, brown moon,

At the book and shoe, the rotted rose

At the door.

This was the place to which you came last night,

Flew close to, flew to without rising away.

Now, again,

In your light, the head is speaking. It reads the book.

It becomes the scholar again, seeking celestial

Rendezvous,

Picking thin music on the rustiest string,

Squeezing the reddest fragrance from the stump

Of summer.

The venerable song falls from your fiery wings.

The song of the great space of your age pierces

The fresh night.