Not always, most of the time, I hear your voice by the persimmon tree
some echo of what was, what cannot be.
I am here, no longer here. The waiting is over…
And although I may these comings may be frequent
you should know, they mean nothing anymore.
Even the last of the persimmon has fallen
the geese nosing it about with their beaks.
I cry, such stupid sentimentality me,
to think that just once you echoed me;
what never was can never be –
not love, not with me.
I pray the winter winds treat you bitterly.