Classic Poem

I

On the morning that a typhoon was blowing
I went to a neighboring stationer
and bought that foreign-made yellow pencil
as light as a cigarette,
the soft wood —
you burn the shavings
and they smell of Brahmanism.
I close my gate and think:
tomorrow morning, and it will be autumn.

II

I'd like to talk about copses and all that:
But I sat on a log and was thinking
" People are beginning to polish
gourds for the divine liquor.
The festival is so near at hand. "