If I make an attempt to walk with each and every thing
the air with the mischievous smile of a devil
attempts to present all things to me
so that my being will be bewitched by any one of them.
I throw them away
and then I begin to walk all over again.
And the world is in early spring.
Under the girdered expressway a milk-colored haze is
the sunlight of morning shining into it aslant.
Where a powdering of frost halfway comes off the tops
children of sunlight blow upon tiny horns of spring.
Heads of grey-green colored hills and
heads of building of this side stretch up billowingly.
Looking out on this scene of such joyful existence
now I will stop questioning the condition of "happiness."