The world we suggest is a new wild west. A sensuous evil world. Strange and haunting, the path of the sun.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

Plunge into the deep without fear, with the gladness of April in your heart.

I leave no trace of wings in the air, but I am glad I have had my flight.

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.