I sit waiting for the coming dusk
with the weariness of day's end. The blood-red sun
crimson the western sky as it sinks.
Its parting rays scatter handfuls
of gold across the ocean's fathomless waters.
There from behind the tall cedar rises
a moon, slender as a young girl's form. Soon enough
in melting embrace she will drench
that cedar, and the swan-pair
that are its momentary guests.
I can't help but feel
today's sky is deeply melancholy;
as if all the joy that was in creation's treasury,
earth's reckless humans have somehow
squandered it all away.
What remains for us
is only sorrow and despair.
All around lies pure darkness
and in that darkness
the ocean's heart-born waves
swell and rise before my eyes in wounded pride,
hurling themselves in futile rage
against the breast of their long-estranged beloved.
The dance of waves has begun,
prehistoric rhythms beat their drums
to wake the beast in the souls
of night's visitors. At this brief night's end
it will grow weary—crossing through
inertia and exhaustion, a new sun rises;
another day will be born.