On a lone December night,
when frosty silence conquers all around,
a young samurai homeward bound
hears a distant crying and its reverberation.
Absurdly, an alluringly stunning woman
approaches him in the street,
her eyes watery and troubled.
Momentarily his reasoning blurs into a welter of affection
but soon senses the outer beauty as a disguise.
Where there should be water is only rock,
the sound of water is of no spring.
A shape-shifter yokai, not a human,
a vision of sadness that charms but is evil.
Instantaneously, he draws his sword,
his mind sane and reposed.
Transfixes her body like a spear,
injures the woman before she flees—
an intent of malice so revealed.
Following the crimson trail of spotted blood
he reaches a derelict, abandoned house.
Inside, numerous human bodies held in spider silk;
a giant Joro spider—stature above his own,
with immense head—writhing, 
body blackened in agony, a woeful mass.
Eyes diabolical, like a dimly glowing ember,
cast a spell on the Samurai,
who feels like drowning in the pool of a quarry.
Disgorges venomous sputum towards him,
the nefarious intention still alive in infirmity.
The gourmandism of death appears before his eyes;
with sheer strength, he dodges just in time.
Wearied down from recent wounds
the spider thuds on the floor, its limbs motionless,
restless blood without a quiver, witchery eyes enfeebled.