This leaf, this withered leaf,
Which listlessly downward drifts,
Tomorrow will rise again,
Will settle on a branch’s sprig.
This snow, this purest snow,
Which lies on the ground still,
To the heavens tomorrow will soar,
To the stars it will steer.
This bow-backed, grey-haired man,
Like a mirrored light in space,
Will come to his derelict home,
Will start anew his days.
And we'll see how the rivers turn
To their springs in the thicket's depth,
And I’ll wake at the break of dawn
On my mother’s lap.
2009, Trans. by VP