№ 29

In the western mountains a late crimson sun

casts its shimmering rays on grasses and trees,

among them places sunk into murky shadow,

their creepers intertwined among the pines.

Crouching tigers abound in their midst;

if they seem me their hackles will rise for a chase.

I don't have the smallest knife to hand

so I'm feeling frightened — and why not?