Frost’s sharp teeth close over the skin of our cheeks and we hurry through the half-world that is soaked in wintry dimness— we are aware of how the forest creeps closer in the night, its winds rushing ahead, carrying a keen that whips up into a spectral howl as, near-dead, the coyote drops its head and in a stupour stalks easy feline prey. The frigid rage of starvation has shattered its other instincts with an ice pick’s precision. We have no satisfaction to give the dark’s endless hunger. The leaves that rot beneath the snow are a sacrifice to the mercy of spring; a prayer to save us from the winter’s blow. ———- Based on Over the wintry Forest, winds howl in rage With no leaves to blow. by Natsume Sōseki