The faintly glowing color of the maples, when it fades away before the falling of snow, serenity in mountains. This living creature, each breath that I am taking, is befag observed by one climbing up a window, a praying mantis, alone. Awakened from winter sleep a frog climbs up onto the top of leftover snow and stretches himself out flat. The red-throated chimney swallows, two of them, upon the rafters— and underneath, my mother who is going to die now. Those wild geese do not pass over any more within the sky without limitation the scattered snow is falling. Very close to death the mother I watch beside— hush-hush—sounds from far rice ponds, frogs crying to heaven are being heard. The clouds of springtime come together at one side around midday by the far-off water reeds the wild geese have settled down. Being awakened I was imagining that the wild grasses might be dropping down their seeds at about this time of night. The hush-hush inside the falling of snow—- standing motionless, a horse, his eyes. Now he has blinked ! Crawling on the grass, you firefly of the morning, transient must be this existence of mine. Do not let me die, ever. Into spring mountains I have come and am staying one person alone trying to hear the sound o leaves fallen, dried, bent over. (Mourning for Akutagawa) Coming to a wall, a lacewing May fly is clinging to it — the sheer transparency of the wings, their mournfulness.