Alone, skirting the foot of the hill,
I come to a lone well by a paddy
and silently look into it.
In the well the moon shines bright, clouds flow by,
the sky spreads open and a blue wind wafts.
It is autumn.
Therein a man.
I hate him but know not why.
I turn from him and go away.
Going away, I come to feel compassion for him.
I return and again look into the well.
Therein remains that man.
Again I come to hate him and go away.
Going away I come to long for him.
In the well the moon shines bright, clouds flow by,
the sky spreads open and a blue wind wafts.
It is autumn,
and the man therein is but a memory.