Songs of Insects

Under the night of full breath, Fired by the wine the golden goblet-moon spilt, The insects are mad in their tremour of hearts : There are a thousand voices of joy and dance, But only one song of sadness and ghost.

O passionate song of ones, I believe, returned to the ground, Now awakening to the sad songs they still left unsung ! The spirit of a song is never content till it is fully sung : O the passionate songs of night and wounded heart, Are they not the cry of my soul of fever and dream ?