The sun\'s on the verge of setting, the light
Run into to window panes and bright.
Open café, the smells of the coffee,
To beneath the trees, it spreads luridly.
The warm steam of a cup is instantly disappeared
And the fall-blows make the wood-air be cleared.
Some leaves\'re tinted lightly on the trees
And others still dark green and the breeze
Is blowing in the wood. On the Stones of brooks,
The sphagnum waves and it greenly looks.
On the surface the ripples arise and flowing
And on the bench, an old man looks down, the flowing.
After the office, many people
Are gamming, and turning on the electric-candle,
One by one in the stores. The sparrows
Aren\'t seen, and a day\'s time passed like arrows.
In wood now, the grass-bugs are forgetting
To chirp and the dragon-flies aren\'t flying.
Under the trees, there\'s a way
And on a bench, people look around a day,
The young with short shirts are jogging
And the old are slowly talking and walking.
The young cheer their cups of beer, in the pubs
The darkness fall and dark are the shrubs.
(18th, Oct.,2023, Kinsley Lee)