The season, in this midnight hour,
gathers and masters itself
to the cry of the scops owl,
opens its heavy eyelids,
and comes, bearing spring upon its head.
In this courtyard where still remain
winter’s grimy, soiled traces of lingering snow
You carry golden sunlight of restoration,
holding it in a flower cup.
O wondrous, mysterious Ainu maiden,
clad in golden robes,
you lift the sky again
and bear it high.
