To offer flowers, on the other bank of the river, a widow I can see.
On the back of a lover, to stumble a step or two forward, Pigmon does. Or, on the back of summer, to land on Tatara Island, how about Pigmon are.
To boil potatoes, jelly of our bloods in a pot, like Hariti. Or, potatoes and livers, jelly of our bloods in a pot, like Hariti.
To bend death, in sludge being pregnant, wind shines. Or, to bend poetry, in sludge being pregnant, wind shines.
Setting the sun, the Hemp the Silk and the Cotton, three old women meet here.