Fate’s little pictures
drawn by a most slender pen,
will hang in the damp air
on a little spider’s web.
The rains draw
with their own flying handwriting,
and the wind shuffles
light strokes like smoke.
They draw, as if on the run,
almost carefreely.
I shall treasure that drawing
where you are looking tenderly.
I live obediently and quietly.
Pianissimo
the wind shakes two strokes
and a little spider’s web.