Mid-winter
The sky is white,
The earth is white,
There is snow on the head of the wayside Jizo
And icicles hang from his chin and his cold stone hands.
All day the out-cast crows croak hoarsely across the whiteness
Until with night their misshapen forms and voices are lost in the darkness.
The earth is white,
There is snow on the head of the wayside Jizo
And icicles hang from his chin and his cold stone hands.
All day the out-cast crows croak hoarsely across the whiteness
Until with night their misshapen forms and voices are lost in the darkness.
