Those archers
see not their target
for need not their eyes
in the glare
that the morning sun
heaves upon
the bleeding roses.
The shadows of the moon
retreating in the forests
with voices dwindling,
echoes that move the leaves.
O, mysterious arrows
seek thy shelter
with no mind,
love is blind!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem