Month horn cloud butts,
The blue dust bathing.
In no one will guess that night,
Why screaming cranes.
On this night, the green backwaters
She resorted cane.
Golden locks of tunic
Swept white hand.
resorted, in the creek looked quick,
I sat down on a stump pain.
In GLAZNE of the requesting daisies,
As Marsh flame goes out.
At dawn, with a curling mist
Floated away and disappeared in the distance ...
And she nodded Month mound,
The blue bathed dust.
1916
