In the mist of the dark
awaits a stranger
face pale as he strolls in moon hour
gazing and thinking of his last life.
He never paid attention to miracles.
As he lifts his eyes staring at this wild world,
he thinks of his last prayer.
He knows not of the feeling that has come over him.
He moves in slow motion
along the delicate fields
and kneels down with his hand held up,
being at peace without motion.
Love never made his life easy;
his dark is dark like the moonlight;
his soul is as pure as a sweet comb of honey-bees.
All along this is what the stranger craved.