Christmas

The piercing cries of chasers penetrate
The dark forest down to the mountain skirts;
And the hunted deer
Trickles his warm blood upon the snow.
The torch fires burn till late at night
Down the valleys, along the slopes,
And on the open hills.

These several days the huntsman and his hound
Have slept in the mountains, chasing after game.
This day again the young deer has espied
Ths chaser carrying on their shoulders
A leopard and a wolf.

Licking the wounds of his mother doe,
The young deer thinks
Only
Of the sleepless gushing spring in the dim valley.
And the white blooming herb in snow beyond the ravine.

At the perilous place and hour,
The temple gong is heared.
Let the dead bury their dead.

On either cheek
Of the slow returning deer
Are settled beads of dew;
And still the trickled blood is warm on the snow.