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The moon is once more swollen in the sky, her overflowing—Her, overflowing. Fog-drunk halation.

Did you remember the day?

We didn’t hear any mention of it—

but then again, our ears could be ever more attuned,

one cannot hear everything—

but it was that day,

already associated with death, already we associate with death

even as her face births before our eyes.

…If ever upon these missives you wonder,

“is it a dead thing?”

someday, but not today;

blush in the mist, we’ll have to have an outgrowth

of something that befits the hue;

misty season though it is, it is darker

darker than this illumination (which may be lost)
darker than fire within the sphere
darker than fire without.

On that day

we faced a tribulation, a separation, a splitting into twain,

but what has split outside in many shards more—

for if four souls (shikon) can end so scattered

think of how further ten-thousand—

will repair itself not fully,

keine wieder eingegliederte Sphäre;

what will be is what was

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