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AM Kiri no Meijiyama, who was travelling to Senako when in a useless storm my boat was lost, buried in wave-flowers. The storm has vanished, the evening is pleasant, and I have sauntered out, accompanied only by my ancestral swords, to savour the delicious melancholy of the autumn moon.

In the field of heaven the clouds bow their heads, having fallen asleep, cropping the stars.

(waving their fans):

The sky is freckled with shapeless moons,
 * but over the earth
 * rises a luminous mist

that is tangled in the branches.

The mist is troublesome. I cannot find the path.

My head is confused with the thick brightness. Are these ghosts, mingled with the thrill of insect cries? Are there golden eyes peering?

Strange! to see fireflies in the mist!

What is this, all surrounded by fronds of bamboo? Surely not a hut? What great fortune for the night!

I was not sure, but it seems to be a small hut. The moon—

—silhouettes the bamboo leaves like shadows on the shoji.