Pathway to Japanese Literature

Woodpecker

Long ago, a saint tolled in the forest of Athens,

The light that never ceases—with the 'Fire of Love' in heavenly skies,

The giant bell once cast—its voice of eternity,

O Green that dyes—truly you are the spirit’s dwelling!

Listen—now, to the dust-choked gale that gasps through the streets!

Come forth—O spirit of the forest's vibrant life,

Do they assail the sacred? All day long, the woodpecker—

Circling, it etches warnings into summer trees’ marrow.

Three thousand years have passed—Eternity still advances.

The undepleted arrow of 'Time'—traces of formless white feathers.

O immortal doctrine that pursues—Plato, thy

You who declared purity and loftiness as glory of heavenly paths,
It guarded Spirit—this forest’s ceaseless sustenance—
The small bird performed its miraculous duty.

Hidden Marsh

In the quiet evening light, white herons descended to their watch,

Beneath the tree with withered cypress leaves, at the hidden marsh,

They sang of longing—"In ancient days, joy—it was

At dawn's breaking, joy slept with stars in the cradle of light,

Sorrow, thou art that which decays forever here—

And have melted and sunk into the mud I clench in my jaws.’—"

Wings of love nestled close; when azure eyes grew moist,

On Tsukiji's grassy banks—I too shed tears.

When I looked up, lonely stars awakened in the evening sky—

O silent light, like a dream without color,

A thin thread faintly chained the water’s depths.

The cycle of sorrow and joy as mutual mementos still cannot endure—

This self resembles mud—
Ah—this my hidden marsh,
Not even the bird that devours sorrow would deign to come.

Elegy for Admiral Makarov

(On April 13, Meiji 37 [1904], when our Grand Admiral Tōgō's fleet advanced en masse toward Port Arthur's entrance, the enemy commander Admiral Makarov sought to intercept them—issuing urgent orders to sortie his flagship Petropavlovsk beyond the harbor. Whether by ill fortune or tactical misjudgment, it struck our laid naval mines; with one catastrophic explosion, the admiral too perished alongside his vessel.)

O storm, be silent—your wings that strike darkly,

The night’s cries and the rough shore’s black current,

The tide-swollen ghostly wails and whimpers,

Quell your roar for but a moment.
Legions’

Enemies and allies lay prostrate in thy spear-field,
Now, in the roar of great waters, I called out,
"Let Makarov’s name find temporary calm."
Having sunk him, the waves of a thousand ages raged,
The crescent moon hung distant beyond Port Arthur’s entrance.
All things quieted their voices—midwinter’s
Vast uninhabited desert under the setting sun’s majesty,
Like the ceasing of kalpic winds—the immovable’s destruction.
Quiet your roar—ah, now in heaven and earth
Hearken to the pent-up silent screams!
Listen—was it the grudge of the defeated? The dark waves’...

Is it wrath that overturns the world? Ah, no—
Having swallowed the bloody tide—in vain with the defeated ship,
Within Port Arthur’s black whirlpools where all sank together,
In his final pupils shone
The song of life, sharp with the power of a great spirit.
Ah, O great defeated one—your name
It was Makarov.
In the violent waves of death,
The name of the person whose final strength trembled—
It was Makarov.
The Lone Hero of Barbarian Skies.

When I remember you—my body being of an enemy nation’s—
A poet of Japan in the distant Eastern Sea,
Though an enemy, I raise this anguished cry—
I cry out loudly (even demon gods kneel,
Enemies and allies lie prostrate in thy spear-field—
Let Makarov’s name find temporary calm).
Ah, great vanquished commander—god of war’s
Chosen solitary hero of Russia—
The heartless wind upon your body
Truly spread its merciless wings—

The dark clouds spreading across East Asia's skies—
As they began to churn, the Yellow Sea's waves grew fierce,
Pitiable remnants of ships—Port Arthur's waters turned cold
To a homeland's fate where even shadows grew desolate,
You arose, calling your god's name—
The echoed cries from ruinous darkness—
I and my majesty—the setting sun that shone
Like one who briefly bore valor upon celestial paths
Splendid indeed—the homeland's destiny
That vigor of yours charging through barbarian skies
You stood in Port Arthur's raging gale
The admiral's flag at masthead pierced the sun—

Swiftly, your homeland’s fate and even the force that once governed the world sank into the seabed—what sank, ah God, no human knew. April 13th—the sun did not shine, the sky remained clouded, storm clouds fierce. The morning sea of borderlands returning to ancient heavens—(Let the sea rage! Let demon gods wail! Enemies and allies lay prostrate in thy spear-field—let them kneel awhile to Makarov’s name!) Myriad thunders danced upon waves as the great axis shattered and resounded—in that instant became imbued—the ruler of Yellow Sea, even the world’s great warship crumbled and tilted heaven and earth within Black Whirlpool’s depths,

Bathed in a bloody tide, he folded his arms,

Infinite wrath—the war cry of raging waves’

While fixing his gaze upon the whirling sea,
The Grand Admiral sank quietly.
Ah, sea of fate—eternal—
O waves of death that raised wrathful crests,
For a day you ravaged Port Arthur, O thousand-year
Secret Black Current bearing a legacy of bitterness,
Ah, O you—thus through nine hundred million kalpas of this world,
Having swallowed away life and hope and willpower,
Confining them within the realm of unknowable darkness,
How—what proof in "the eternal
Light of Life" do you demonstrate through reason?

Thy persecution fragilely sank away.
This world, this life—truly in thy eyes,
Was it indeed as worthless as it appeared?
Ah, had he found rest at last?
The letters of history—all
Had already been moistened by tears of a thousand ages.
Moistened anew—Makarov’s
Grand name too—in my own fervent tears.—
He sank to the depths of the abyssal sea.
In that breast filled with the great spirit’s power,
Having received wounds of sorrow ceaseless through eternity,
Those grave wounds made the world weep.
I am perplexed; as for the earth’s eternal destruction,

In the tears of sentient beings that entreat power,
in the power of entreaty—ceaseless eternal life’s—
is this the noble spark through which transmutation manifests?

Ah, farewell then, my friend Makarov,
In the poet’s fervent tears, your name—

In the power contained within this cry, I pray—
Your name, my poem, and faith in the imperishable—
Comforted by these, I shall battle on through this world.

Leaning on the dark June midnight window,
Turning from the candle's glow, I quietly trace your name—
Reflecting how I stand amidst soundless raging waves,
Intimate with your whirling tides of death,
As though witnessing your final mastery—
My head bows low, burning tears unrestrained.

You have departed.
Gone yet undeparted—

That noble heart endures eternal,
In hearts gazing upon the great spirit, never ceasing.

Ah! The night storm's fury, black tides on ragged shores—
Both foe and ally prostrate on that jut of land—
With voice aflame I cry:
"May Makarov's name know brief respite!"

Having sunk him, the waves of eternity raged.
A crescent moon hung in the distant beyond of Port Arthur.

Sleeping Capital

(Upon entering the capital and soon taking lodging at our new Surugadai residence—when I opened the window, below the bamboo-clad cliff lay a valley filled with a vista of rooftiles that consumed the entire field of view.)
As autumn came, every night would bring heavy fog over the rooftiles; above the fog, the moon shone—for me who had long dwelled in mountain villages and remote hamlets, this was indeed a novel sight.

That which he composed in haste one night when inspiration struck is one of these seven stanzas in a minor key.
The seven pieces from "Withered Woods" to "Two Shadows" were written during three weeks at this temporary residence whose window overlooked the valley of rooftiles.)

The bell had tolled,
With utmost solemnity.
Night lay heavy upon the city.
All voices—the slumbering capital.
Gazing downward—dreadful,
It resembled a wild lion's death.

Unshakable,
A monolithic wave of fog,
In pale-gleaming moonlight,
Congealed and enveloped the city.
In the harbor—a hundred ships—
Like theirs, lamplight spilled forth.
Gazing down,
The sleeping city,

Ah, was this then the final day—
This advancing castle of surging blood?
The night fog, tomb-like,
Failed to contain all things.

A million

The weary people

They seem to sleep, in the tomb.

The fog separates heaven and earth,

The moonlight shines far and wide,

The heavenly dream does not pour upon the earth.

Voiceless,

The sleeping city,

The great silence

A voice exists, adrift in the fog,

It drifts and spreads,

the Black Current’s roar—

Ah, the voice—

In the daytime clamor,

The trampled soul's

Is this the groan of sin from an agonizingly struck soul?

Then again—the daylong

Is this the lingering voice of battle?

My window—

The turbid sea,

Like a castle encircling,
Fearfully perplexed at keeping its distance,
Guarding poetry’s breast while
Admitting no unobstructed moonlight.

Tokyo

The resplendent summer day—now—

hangs upon the meridian.

A forest of iron chimneys—all their smoke in soot-blackened hands—
What did they mean to seize? They pierced straight through heaven.
Through countless alleyways, empty carts moved without sound.

Ah, now upon the capital’s grand avenues did the great midsummer light not stir.

Loneliness! Like a frost-bound night did it crush a million hearts.

Ten million roof tiles today indeed lay colorless and still.

A passing demon scattered a thousand pale paper fragments,

The gates and windows of every house were all sealed with black cloth.

Countless alleyways along the capital's grand avenues—human shadows like morning stars.

Exceedingly rare.

—Thus, behold the capital of bone-weeping deathly extinction.

The resplendent summer day now hung upon the meridian.

From what quarter had you flowed, O Black Star, into the true north sky?

Your flight went unseen.
At last, at the northern edge of the grand avenue where a structure towered into celestial paths—

You perched upon the layered tower’s roof.
A hoarse cry escaped—this was it.

The impure crow—an ominous bird.
—A bone-scavenging bird it was—or perhaps,

A bird of resentment’s venomous beak wandering and crying out in the deathly sky.

The bird cried twice—Ah, how its voice still does not end,

From what quarter had he appeared—several shaku of white hair hanging down—
there stood a child-faced old man holding aloft a gleaming sword.
Ah—
the black long robe trailed quietly, echoing through desolate doors;
footsteps resounded through all the capital as he alone paraded along the grand avenue.
Every compass needle

Every compass needle pointed to true north along the meridian.

Horn blast

Youths of Michinoku’s valleys, children of the pastures—
In night’s heart clad in young leaves,
On May hills where crimson leaves budded through haze,
Wound along the oak grove’s edge,
Bearing the sinking moon upon their backs—
The glimmer of the eastern whitening sky—
From the pure white cornerstone of heaven’s gate—water welled up—

Exceedingly refreshing.
——
Lapping softly against the shaded ground,
Morning grass underfoot—small dewdrops had brightened.
The wind too was cool.
Youths of Michinoku's pastures, treading on dew
When they blew their horns with earnest hearts,
Blowing, and when they blew again,
The sound of water rushing through rocky rapids in mountain streams
Ah, the distant sound of life’s small drum,
Resonated closer.
Ah, no peace of mind existed.
On the grass of the hill's continuation
As if a white light were rolling,
Suddenly, the shadow of a moving thing.—
Lying within the sunken enclosure,
Having awakened from dawn dreams with hearts laden,

The flock of lambs, quietly drawn by the resounding approach,

Stirred by the distant horn's call,

They crossed the enclosure, trampled the grass, and fled straightaway

Toward the hill where dawn's voice sounded.
——

Ah, this joyous morning dance,

Clad in fresh milk's hue, the young lambs

Swirled around the horn-blower's form,

Crying to one another in cool winds before leaping again.

Ah, upon life's lofty hill—

Were someone to sound the horn,

I too would transcend this world's bounds,

Through fields, along rivers, into forests,

Crossing mountains and seas beyond,

As one who journeys ever onward—

Youths of Michinoku’s valleys—no, even more—
Blowing horns again and again, no peace of mind exists.
He was an aged merchant.

He was an aged merchant.

Shoes, bags, hats, leather belts,

In his cramped shop lined with wares,
he sat, and each time a customer came,
all day long—and still into the blue glow of electric-lit nights deepening late—
his glossily bald head bowing deeply a thousand times with courtesy,
so accustomed was he that with utmost smoothness,
he did not reel off countless flatteries.

He, aged, is an idle man.

Clattering, he carved life.

The accounting desk beneath the bonbons,

Lowered over the accounting desk

His head was most curious.

Each time that head lowered,
His days grew shorter,
The years indeed grew heavy.

And so, behold, a strand of hair

Fell one strand, then two strands, three strands,
Unnoticed they fell away—until finally,

Curious, the bald head.

That head continued balding,
The white-walled storehouse's second floor,

The mountain of golden treasure
(Dazzling to behold, even in darkness.)
Piled up, exceedingly high.
The ancient kings of Egypt

The great pyramid of my tomb
To build upon Nile’s sandy plain,
A hundred thousand black laborers
They say were pressed for twenty years.

This aged merchant too,
The monarch of recent glory,
Employing several apprentices,
Inside the storehouse unseen by people,
He built a mountain of treasure.—
This indeed is—verily—dazzling to behold,
The pyramid of this new age—
A monument to the tomb of souls—

Crossroads

The aged and the young,

Dozens of people—men and women—
From east—or perhaps west—
From slope’s crest and slope’s base—
Each self-driven in urgent haste—
Passed through this place.
Where I stood now—
A broad thoroughfare facing seaward—
Fourfold crossroads.
——At its four corners rose

All houses stood exceedingly solemn—
a bank and consular residence,
a newspaper firm; what remained was
sniffing out human sins on patrol.

A police station keeping a black dog.

The people passing through here—behold, they all
did not look up at the sun high in the sky,
nor gazed at the ship-filled sea,
merely walked along roads that humans had made,
gazed upon houses where people dwelled,
and went about clustered among others.
The white-bearded old man too, or perhaps—
A young girl with a silk umbrella,
A boy clacking his shoes,
A marine products merchant smoking tobacco,
A tall gentleman—a grandchild—
A thin old woman carrying a grandchild on her back,
A sake-bloated man arching his back mightily,
Merchants; begging children,
A whistling young waiter,
People without homes—the wretched too.
How hurriedly they passed!

Broad crossroads—people were many, but
Were there none who knew each other?
Though they walked side by side, yet when they met,
All people, with gestures of feigned ignorance,
Each for themselves, pursued their own paths—
They hurried, each to their own.
Even the heartless trees of the forest
Their branches leaning against one another intertwined,
Year after year they fell to perish—so it was told.

Even leaves rustle when morning winds blow,
Whispering at dawn; when evening winds blow,
They converse in twilight murmurs—
Yet humanity’s world stands a sparse grove,

The world of humans is a desert without people.

Ah, I too—on the path I tread,

That day had passed without a companion to speak to—
walking through this crossroads now thus—
lost in thought and shifting my steps—
the clamorous sound of a door reverberated.

From the newspaper office on the right

Several men dashed out,
With their waist bells ringing loudly

They dashed away from the four corners.

Four roads—each to their own, each to their own.

Now in May, a day of clear skies,
The sunlight was unclouded at the sea—
Though there were no waves gnashing their teeth,

In the hurried nation of people,
Something must have occurred.

Untitled

Sapporo had seen exceedingly fine weather since the day before yesterday—
Night fell with a cold wind
that blew gently through slight cloud cover

An autumn day—the sun shines warmly
On low paper doors,
When I lie down thinking of things,

My head grows so foggy
Comfortable—even those who wander.
Your amusing letter—
I saw it not yesterday.
How happy I was.
In my happiness, I smirked to myself

Having finished reading, upon my eyelashes—
dew had settled.
The fragrance of raw-barked trees quivered.

Hakodate—ah, how deeply beloved!
Even the wood-chip carpenters carving trees
Ah, what charming love affairs they must be having!
In the newly built houses
Future lovers
They’re probably being spoiled by Mom.
Ah, once more—my beloved
In Hakuson: jade-white whales.
May I speak of my own affairs?
My dear Take-chan—
The modern Westernized name—
O admired kingfisher of mine—
Foreign lari-lure-lee tongues
In the words of a drunkard:
“m…m…my dear brethren!”—
You read the letter again and again—

My heart—Aoyagi-cho’s
back tenements, 18-banchi—
to Mu-no-Hachi it returned.

The world remains as it is,

how it would be.
No worries.

I compare myself—a willow bearing pumpkins

like one fully formed, swaying aimlessly,

the heavy bag of poverty

hanging from my gaunt waist as I walk,

a professional poet—and yet,

A part-time proofreader,
Since this world persists through happenstance,
What must be shall surely come to pass.

Behold now, the "Otaru Nichinichi"

"The Times was like a pumpkin—
The vines' hands stretched out to me.
As Kannazuki approached—
That godless month—
The swaying gourd's essence:
Proofreaders turned reporters,
Climbing corporate tendrils."

It had to tumble to one side or another.
The day before yesterday was a good day.

From Otaru came my wife Setsuko.
She arrived at morning and departed by evening.
Though Sapporo held no houses for rent,

The kind landlady of the lodging house,
along with a boy from the same room,
moved the cat feces to another room
and prepared this room for us.
The kind landlady offered to lend it.
Having sanctioned this as acceptable,
the day after tomorrow—my wife and Kyoko—
pot, futon, iron kettle, tea tray—
carrying them, they would come again
to this six-mat single room
where a new household would be established.
May his heart find rest.
At that time, after I had come,
your kindnesses, every last one—
I had heard from Setsuko.
Burnt remains of Marui Slope—
hanging onto the cart—
(here, there is indeed a pumpkin,)

They must have hurried to the station.

Thinking of your figures,
he burst into tears.
Again his heart
held back as tears streamed down.
The destination of Hidaka's Ainu lord
weighs heavily on my mind.
To the lanky Ikibi no Kimi,
I inquired about the matter yet still do not understand.

Four days ago I sent it out—
my letter—still it hasn't returned,
no reply comes.
At this moment

I wander utterly lost in fog.
If it concerns that one—

drifting weightless like a bird—
he must have flown off somewhere.

Likely nothing grave—
yet still... somehow...

it gnaws at me—this waiting for word—
while up north in Asahikawa

a lanky trainee officer

Before long—for exercises—
it was said he would come to Sapporo.
No word had come.
He poked at the pork hot pot.

I would speak, but this too must be awaited.

What must be awaited is not limited to this alone,

I pray, O brethren

Send me letters.
Even a postcard would do.

The days without word from Hakodate
were somehow me alone.

I had been exiled to desolate wilds,

After thinking, my heart fretted restlessly,
Finding no reason yet vexed at my side,
The cat's waste irritated me sorely.
The cat's waste seemed pitiful,
The beard beneath my nose had grown a quarter-inch long.
Whenever I spoke, it turned to senseless rambling,
I remained still an unranked Taifu,
In truth, I was pitiable.

Sapporo, quiet city,

The autumn day so warmly,
The buzzing of gadflies comes visiting.

South window—drowsily,
My heart suddenly grew restless;
Taking up the brush, the text I wrote—
Behold this five-seven meter!
Of old, the bearded Homer,
As if writing the Iliad,
I did write smoothly.

Sapporo, quiet city—come into my dreams.

Envoi

Does Hakuson's second beloved child smile now - or perhaps
Is she weeping? How I long to hear.

Beloved O my brethren—for my sake
Write letters—even without scratching your head.
The child of the north learns German; come now, come!
O my righteous equals, let us race our steeds.
Drowsily, time slips away; the neighboring room’s
The clock strikes two; I shall go to work.

40th Year September 23rd

In Sapporo, Takuboku respectfully.

Brother Namiki Esq.

Untitled

For about a year—no, even a month—

Even a week—no, three days would suffice.

God—if You exist—ah, God,

My wish is only this.
Please,
make some part of my body stiff—even if it hurts.
It doesn't matter—just make me sick!
Ah!
Please...
Pure white, soft, and—
my body floats lightly, endlessly—

On the futon that seemed to sink even to the valley of peace's depths—no,
even on a nursing home's worn tatami,
I wanted to sleep soundly without a single thought (were I to die like that,
it'd be no loss)!
Even if someone came and stole my limbs away,
I wanted to sleep so deeply I wouldn't notice!
What do you think of that!
This feeling—!
Ah.
Just imagining it makes me drowsy!
I'm wearing now
this garment—this heavy, heavy garment of responsibility—
were I to strip it all off (ah, how blissful!)

My body like hydrogen
Becoming gently light,
I might soar into the lofty sky—"A skylark!"
Down below, everyone might be saying that!
Ah!

――――――――――――――

Death! Death!
This is my wish.

Only one!
Ah!

Ah... ah... will you truly kill me?
Wait—wait—

Merciful God—ah, wait!

Just a little—just enough to buy bread—even five—five—five sen would do!

If mercy exists enough to kill!

The Foundation of the New City

Ere long the world’s war shall come!

Phoenix-like aerial warships swarm the skies,

Beneath them every city shall be laid to ruin!

The war shall long continue!
Half of humankind shall become bones!

After that—ah, after that—our

“The New City”—where shall it be built?

Upon history’s ruins?
Upon thought and love?
No, no.

Upon the soil.
Indeed, upon the soil—what meaning has this thing called husband and wife—
In air devoid of permanence or distinction

Under the boundless blue, blue sky!

The Terror of the Summer City

Under the scorching summer day,

The terrified, glinting heart of the rails.

Sliding down from his mother's dozing lap,

A chubby three-year-old boy

Toddling, he walked toward the train tracks.

At the greengrocer's shop, wilted vegetables.

The hospital window curtains hung motionless.

Under the closed iron gate of the kindergarten

a long-eared white dog lay sprawled,

all things in boundless brightness

indiscriminately accepting poppy flowers fallen dead,

the summer air's torment as cracks formed in coffins of green wood.

The ailing wife of the ice vendor carried a bucket,

propping up her broken Western-style umbrella as she stepped through the gate,

from the boarding house in the side street they emerged advancing,

a silent funeral procession of beriberi patients beneath summer’s terror.

Seeing this，the crossroads policeman started forward but bit back a groan.
The white dog stretched to its heart’s content，

The white dog went into the shade of the dust pile.

Don't wake.

Heated by the western sun,

more than the dust-covered window glass—

there still existed an insipid life.

Exhausted from formless thought,

he sweated, snored, took an afternoon nap.

From the mouth of a still young man, yellow teeth were visible,

Through the glass, the summer sun illuminated his hairy shins,
A flea crawled up over them.
Don’t wake—don’t rise—until day fades.
Until the cold, quiet twilight descends upon your life.
Somewhere, a woman’s seductive laughter.
A spring evening pregnant with significance
In distant lands wars raged…
On the sea, a banquet upon a shipwreck...
At the pawnshop, a pale woman stood,
Turning away from the lamplight, she bit her lip.
When one exited that place, at the crossroads' edge—
A short-statured woman struck her lover’s back—

In the gloom, she took out a wallet.

Something suggestive of significance—

The spring evening pressed down on the town

The heavy, stagnant air’s unease.

The day ended without work taking hold,

There existed a fatigue whose cause remained unknown.

In distant lands many people die...

And the shouts of female activists pressing against the government office…

On the sea... Shinobu-ō’s plague...

Ah, at the carpenter's house, the lamp fell,
and the carpenter’s wife jumped up.

The mounted policeman

In the ceaselessly moving crowd of Sudamachi,
the mounted policeman stood ceaselessly scanning his gaze about—
like a shabby statue—
the idiot boy nimbly slipped under the horse’s belly,

A red automobile loaded with piled cargo
The red automobile proceeded past its front.
Among the many people coming and going,
There was also a policeman’s wife leading a child by the hand.

On her way back from borrowing money at her parents' home,
she suddenly looked up at this person on horseback.
She thought of her husband’s labors.

Ah, a dog was run over by the tram—
People gathered in droves.
The policeman too advanced his horse...

After the Endless Debate (1)

Dark, dark—resembling a wasteland—

In my brain,

At times, like lightning surging,

Revolutionary thought flashes—

Alas, alas,

That resounding thunderclap never arrived.
I knew,

Illuminated by that lightning,
The form of a new world.
There would all things find their proper place.

However—it always vanishes in an instant—

And yet, this resounding thunderclap never arrives.

Dark, dark—resembling a wasteland—

Within my brain

At times, like lightning surging,

Revolutionary thought flashes—

After the Endless Debate (2)

Our reading and waging debate,
And the gleam in our eyes,
Were no less than those of Russia's youths fifty years prior.

We debated what we should do.
However, not a single person struck the desk with a clenched fist and cried out ‘V NAROD !’

We knew what we sought,
Furthermore we knew what the people sought,
And thus we knew what we must do.
Indeed we knew more than Russian youths of fifty years prior.
Yet not one soul struck desks with clenched fists,
Nor cried 'V NAROD!'
Those gathered here were all youths,
Youths ceaselessly birthing new things into this world.
We knew our victory would come when elders perished swiftly,

There was the radiance of our eyes and the fervor of our debates.

Yet not a single person struck the desk with a clenched fist and

cried out 'V NAROD!'

Ah, the candles had already been replaced three times,

In the teacups floated small winged insects' corpses,

Though the young woman's fervor remained undiminished,

In her eyes lay the exhaustion of endless debate.

Still, not a single person struck the desk with a clenched fist and

No one cried out 'V NAROD!'

A spoonful of cocoa

I know, the terrorist’s

the sorrowful heart—

A heart that cannot separate words from deeds—

A single heart,

In place of words that have been taken away—
the heart that seeks to speak through deeds,
the heart that hurls myself and my body at the enemy—

And this was the sorrow earnest and passionate people eternally bore.

After endless debates,

Sipping a spoonful of cooled cocoa,

Through its faintly bitter taste upon my tongue,

I understood—the terrorist’s

sorrowful, sorrowful heart.

*Study in the Afternoon*

I do not like the women of this country.

The foreign book left half-read—

On paper with a rough texture,

the wine I mistakenly spilled—

A sorrow that refuses to seep away.

I do not like the women of this country.

Heated Debate

I cannot forget the heated debate of that night—
concerning the treatment of "power" in a new society—
regrettably, between myself and N, one of our comrades, a young economist—
the heated debate that arose between myself and him,
that five-hour debate.

“What you say is thoroughly the words of a demagogue.”

He finally declared this.

That voice had become like a roar.

Had there not been that table between us,

his hand would likely have struck my head.

I saw his swarthy, large face

brimming with masculine rage.

The May night had already reached one o'clock.

When someone stood and opened the window,

the candle flame between N and me swayed several times.

On my cheeks—still recovering from illness yet pleasantly warm—

how refreshing was the night wind pregnant with rain.

Now I recall again that night—
In our gatherings there was always but one woman—
I cannot forget the ring on K’s supple hand.
When brushing back disheveled hair,
And when trimming the candle wick,
It sparkled before my eyes many a time.

And that was indeed the token of betrothal that N had given.

However, in our debate that night,

She had been my ally from the very beginning.

Epitaph

I had always respected him,

and still do now—

Under the chestnut tree in that suburban cemetery

We buried him—though two months had already passed—

Indeed, since we ceased to see him at our gathering place,

Already two months had passed.
He was no debater,
yet he was an indispensable presence.

At a certain time, he spoke:

“Comrade, do not blame my silence. I could not debate, but I am always prepared to rise at any time.”

“His eyes would constantly reproach the cowardice of debaters.”

One of the comrades thus assessed him.

Yes, I too had often felt this way.

And now, I no longer receive the reproach of justice from those eyes.

He was a laborer—a machine worker he was.
He always worked earnestly and cheerfully,
In his free time he would converse with comrades and often read.

He did not use tobacco or alcohol.
His sincere， unyielding， and thoughtful character—
the peasants of the Jura Mountains made their friends endure.
Afflicted by a fierce fever， he lay upon his sickbed，
maintaining composure until death without uttering delirious words.

“Today is May 1st—our day.”

This was the final words he had left me.

On the morning of this day, I visited him in his illness,

That evening, he finally entered eternal sleep.

Ah, that broad forehead and arms like iron hammers,

And just as he had not feared life,

Eyes that had not feared death and always gazed directly—

When I close my eyes, they remain before me even now.

His remains, as a materialist,

He was buried under that chestnut tree.

The epitaph we comrades chose was as follows:

"I am prepared to rise at any time."

Opened the worn-out briefcase.
My friend opened the worn-out briefcase,
On the floor where faint candlelight scattered flickering shadows,
He took out various books.

Those were all things prohibited in this country.

Before long, my friend found a single photograph and,

"This is it," he said as he placed it in my hand,

Quietly leaning against the window again, he began to whistle.

That was a photograph of a young woman who was not particularly beautiful.

Truly, that outskirts'

Truly, that festival night in the outskirts’

Inside the motion picture hut,

In the drifting haze of acrid acetylene gas,

piercingly resounded

The autumn night’s calling whistle was so sorrowful, alas.

The whistle trilled faintly before fading away,

and the surroundings abruptly darkened.

The pale blue film of a mischievous urchin appeared before my eyes.

When it trilled faintly again,

the hoarse-voiced narrator—

making gestures like those of a Western ghost—

began tediously explaining something.

I was simply moved to tears.

But that is a memory from three full years past.

Holding a heart wearied by endless debates,

hating the weakness of resolve in this comrade and that,

Returning alone through the town on a rainy night,

suddenly, that calling whistle came to mind.

—Faintly trilling,

again, faintly trilling—

I did not suddenly well up with tears.

Truly, truly, how my heart starved and lay empty,

even now remaining as it had in times past.

My friend was again today,
my friend once more,
wrestling with Marx’s Capital.

My friend must have been still wrestling with the obscurity of Marx’s Capital.

Around me,

small yellow flower petals were fluttering down,

For no particular reason,

there was a sense as of something fluttering down and scattering.

A woman said to be already thirty,
A woman of about three shaku in stature,
Holding aloft a red fan as she danced,

I saw this at a sideshow.

When was that, I wonder?

Speaking of which, that woman—
She attended our gathering just once—
She never came again—
That woman—
What might she be doing now.

A bright afternoon devoid of possessions—the absence of a tranquil heart.

House.
This morning too—suddenly—when my eyes opened,
I came to desire a house I could call my own.
Even while washing my face, I found myself vaguely thinking of this.
Having finished the day's work at my workplace and returned home,
After finishing the evening meal—sipping tea and taking a drag of tobacco—
The nostalgia in the taste of purple smoke—

Fleeting once more—that thought suddenly surfaced in my heart—
Fleeting and sorrowful.
The location—not far from the railway,
I would choose the outskirts of my unburdened hometown village.
A Western-style wooden structure—clean and uncluttered,
Though not tall, and even without any decoration,
A wide staircase and balcony and bright study...
And indeed, a comfortable chair as well.
Through these years, how often had I contemplated this house—
Each time I thought of it, bit by bit altering the layout and such,

while picturing it in my mind,

When I casually let my gaze settle on the pure white of the lamp’s shade,
I felt the joy of living in that house appearing vividly before me,

In the corner of a room, the wife nursing the crying child faced away,
Seizing that moment of respite, a fleeting smile rose to her lips.
Now, that garden would be wide, its grass left to grow wild.
When summer arrived, summer rain would fall upon unruly grass leaves—
The satisfying clamor of its noisy descent.
And in that corner, I would plant a single large tree,
Placing a white-painted wooden bench at its roots—

On days when rain did not fall, I would go out there,
puffing fragrant Egyptian tobacco with its thick smoke,
turning pages of new publications from Maruzen that arrived every four or five days,
to pass the time dozing until mealtime was announced,
then opening round eyes wide at everything—listening intently.

I would gather the village children and tell them various stories...

Fleeting and sorrowful,

Timelessly—having parted from youthful days and arrived—

Growing weary of monthly existence,

When once surfacing in urban dwellers' restless hearts,

Fleeting and sorrowful,

This nostalgia too precious to ever discard—

With all those unfulfilled wishes,

Though knowing their futility from the start,

Still bearing that gaze from secret loves of youth,

Without telling my wife, while staring at the lamp's pure white shade,

Alone and in secret, earnestly, I continued to dwell on these thoughts within my heart.

Airplane.

Look—today too—in that azure sky,
The airplane flew so high.
The boy who worked as a waiter
On his occasional Sunday off,
In the house with just his tuberculosis-stricken mother,
The eye strain from diligently studying Reader alone…

Look—today too—in that azure sky,
The airplane flies so high.