Stretching taut the silken threads
On a mother-of-pearl shuttle,
O, lithe fingers, begin
Your fascinating lesson.
Ebb and flow of your hands,
No doubt you are conjuring
Some kind of solar fright.
When your broad palm,
Like a shell, flaming,
First dies down, drawn to the shadows,
Then sinks at last in a rosy light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem