With the supermoon still fresh in our minds, we bring to you Chuya Nakahara’s poem, “The Moon.”
More solitary than ever tonight, the moon
wonders at her doubting foster father.
Time hauls a silver tide away to the desert.
An old man’s earlobes flow like fireflies.
Ah, forgotten embankments of canals,
tanks, the earth resounding in my chest…
The moon pulls out a rusty silver case
and languidly smokes a cigarette.
Heels over head, seven celestial nymphs
keep dancing round about
but give no comfort
to the moon’s heart, weltering in disgrace.
O far-flung stars!
The moon awaits her executioner.
translated by Christian Nagle
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