Path of a Comet
Even a peacock assumes,
When he is weary,
An attitude of dejection
And will not spread for a while
His lovely feathers.
While I was picking up seven pebbles,
My soul grew up to be a woman.
Now I walk along
Casting them out one by one.
The setting sun forgets
Its mighty power,
And, like a woman, burns
Only for love.
45 
