Night stills down: valleys close up.
No more women's drumming of shuttles because hunters have returned.
After the moon has risen, hunters get drunk
And become priests looking up
To the eaves of the sanctuary
Autumn-tainted, scattering like dewdrops.
Beneath the eaves, wooden altars tremble.
Naked sheep are covered slovenly with grass.
Like delicate throbbing,
Wandering spirits of drunk pheasants and bats
Doltishly come out from the kitchen range.