Translated by Douglas Haynes
The land is thinly-settled. Despite huge fields and machines the towns lie sleepy in boxwood gardens—cats seldom meet a thrown stone. In August stars fall. In September you sound the hunt. Still, the gray goose flies, the stork walks through unpoisoned meadows. Like mountains clouds soar over the woods. If you don’t take a paper here the world is fine. In kettles of plum butter your face reflects well and the fields gleam fire-red.