Cloaked in darkness, the day darkens rapidly.

Drops of water that had been huddling inside the branches flowed out, growing no larger,

hours forming knots of memory here and there on the skin of old trees,

the leaves were living in fear

as they checked that one another’s temperature still remained.
A wandering dog, its pure gaze roaming as it sniffed the riverside stink of manure,

leaves me to the slowly declining evening sun

and disappears in the direction of the patch of lofty corn.

When plants like people producing bruised memories as leaves,

keeping time to the sound of marching songs sung by a band of soldiers returning home,

are about to be submerged beneath the dusk,
the rake-like fingers of the old man by the riverside, emerging with his grandson on his back,

peeling an egg and feeding it to him, gradually whiten the heavy heart

and transform it into soft skin. As they are accustomed to the evening air,

to get intimate with people is to share the breath they each emit, I wait. 
Now the tail of things is fading gradually.

Now the world is filling with things vibrating a low scale for a moment.

The sand carrying subtle memories in the river played by the white fingers of evening

will form a dune tonight.
The fish dried on the roof

begin to talk of far different things, gnashing teeth,

dreams flowing like lava

are bursting from the scars of the sky that is growing deeper and deeper.

At each spot hardened with a scar, a new star is born.
But now I will talk of extinction.

Taking the shabby household goods from my heart, I will float them down the river,

and myself, too, my body that a meek dog had left, putting in the eyes,

when the far, tall corn field, tens of thousands of shiny pupils inserted,

closes its eyelid closely.