And in the sky a dark cloud like a slim youth
who is intending to marry,
otherwise too, the cloud is being pulled the way a tooth
My God, how we drove, along the way
relatives hummed like empty shells,
foam spattered from the stars, the sky the like of
a bottle's bottom, only one sheaf of wheat
the size of a field, whistles by.
We drove to the Great Boar's house
we were in a hurry: Doctor, Doctor,
the Hare is sick.
The Boar's house was full of horrid coal fumes,
he pushed his wife against the wall,
one whirl but two shadows.
That is why his thighs fell apart, spread out
in the pattern of a cosmic toad.
Her pain rose to the heavens, made
sedan chairs and poles tremble, put out the light of stars.
Next to that pain, my God, your speech
is only a feather, soiled.