On a serene Autumn night when the waning moon
hangs in the middle of the murky sky,
it seems a huge yellow balloon;
stardust falls as pollen from flowers around the pound,
and it doesn't pelt as rain, but make a cascading sound...
every shadow vanishes along with the owls' cry.
Bedazzled, I hold out my anxious hands to catch that shower of light gold,
and it falls gently as transparent raindrops bouncing only once,
then settling as sand after a whirlwind lasting the briefest second;
so heavy it becomes, that I let some escape without reluctance:
spreading it on the leaves of the scented spruces that attract moonbeams...
a thought comes to me, " Such should be the color of real dreams!