Like clover in the pond water,
there’s a tangible essence
I sense in these bubbling days.
These days that drive me mad
with foresight, that hiss and brew
so splendidly on schedule.
They’re teeming with what’s to come,
they’re frothing with the hope of me,
they’re giggling and trembling in fear
The ships will be here in the morning,
the train at the station at noon,
and some kind of new-fangled flying machine
may just as well take me after that.
These bubbling days are ready for me,
churning impatience while nights make their rounds,
boiling fiasco to be eaten up
after fasting has had its fill.