The Fox
The fox realizes that
in this desolate sunbright field
there is only him alone.
That because of this he himself is a part of the field,
that he is the whole of it.
To turn into the wind too, to turn into the dried grasses too,
and even to turn into a streak of light too
inside the fox-colored desolate field,
almost like existing or not existing,
is being like a shadow, that too he realizes.
He realizes how to run almost like the wind too, to run even quicker than light too.
Because of this he believes that his figure is invisible to anybody.
A thing that is invisible is running while thinking.
A thought alone is running.
Without anyone being aware of it the midday moon has risen above the desolate field.