Fireflies from the Enchanted Mountains
come through the screen this autumn evening
and settle on my shirt

my lute and my books grow cold

outside, above the eaves
they are hard to tell from the stars

they sail over the well
each reflecting a mate

in the garden they pass chrysanthemums
flares of color against the dark

white-haired and sad
I try to read their code
wanting a prediction:
will I be here next year
to watch them?

translated by David Young