Classic Poem

to a woman I call Ula

In a spongelike landscape,
and moist, swollen with dampness.
Nowhere are humans and beasts visible,
and an oddly sad-looking waterwheel seems to be weeping.
Then too, from under a blurring willow,
a gentle person you are waiting for is visible, I say
Her body wrapped in a light shawl,
dragging a beauteous, gaseous costume,
and roaming quietly like a spirit.
Ah Ula, lonely woman!
" You, you're always late, aren't you? "
We have no past, have no future,
then too, we've disappeared from actual things.
Ula!
In this landscape that looks peculiar,
why don't you bury the corpse of the muddy cat?