night
In the flickering light of the candle
in the midst of the blackness of the night,
the girl sits quietly.

The moon is well hidden
is covered by gray haze,
like a muddy lake.

A moth lies down
by the firelight again,
finds its end there in a cruel way.

The wind caresses her bare shoulders,
looks like the thorny blow of loneliness,
and the crickets chirp softly.

When the moon goes down she stays there
resignedly observes the new day,
Nothing will change.