Here and there, I see farmers' melancholy faces. The faces are dark, looking only at the ground. On the ground, spring, like smallpox, is ponderously… - Sakutarō Hagiwara

This utterly unknown dog follows me,
shabby, limping on its hind leg, a crippled dog's shadow.
Ah, I do not know where I'm going,
in the direction of the road that I go,
roofs of tenements are being pelted pelted in the wind,
in a gloomy, empty lot by the road,
bone-dry grass leaves are pliantly thinly moving.

Body half buried in sand,
still it's lolling its tongue.
Over this invertebrate's head,
pebbles and brine rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle, flowing,
flowing,
ah so quietly as a dream flowing.

When I think of poetry, I become teary, without meaning to, because of the wretchedness of human sentiments.