In the middle of a long journey
I stand on Joshu's stone bridge
with sore legs and an aching back.

The points of light overhead
are almost too faint to be called stars.
And you would have difficulty
describing the water below.
Is it sluggish or simply meandering?
Is it tar-black, or does it retain
a trace of purple?

Near the opposite bank
where the reeds are brushed together
a pair of ducks glides downstream.