Haibun # 3

A crow flies below the crescent moon at twilight as the first star appears in the darkening sky. The sound of running water from a nearby stream mixes with the voices of the dying day. Something from the deep is sounding, but for who?—and what does it all mean?

With a thread of fragrance
I tie my poem
to the sail of the moon

Avec un fil de parfum
j’attache mon poème
au voile de la lune


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