Pathway to Japanese Literature

Indigo-colored Toad

In the bedchamber of the forest’s treasury,

The Indigo-colored Toad exhaled yellow breath
It drew a single pattern in the damp, dark hearth.

Like the sun’s secret child, the frail boy
With beautiful grape-like eyes—
“Go on, go on,” valiantly—
The imaginary hunter in soft kangaroo-woven boots.

Ceramic Crow

The ceramic blue crow,

Wrapping smooth maternal rhythms as it menacingly approaches,

In your birth-warmth you stagger.

Large-beaked, large-eyed scheming blue crow,

Devour this fair weather's calm.

Withered ship.

There was a sea.

There was a sea in your palm.

While sucking the juice of strawberry fruits,

I staggered.

I am rolled into your hands.

Stifled breath tried to erect a tombstone upon my stomach.

O gray rebellion, devote your soul to the heart of the fire pan—

let us die purely and peacefully for evangelism’s sake.

Golden Darkness

The south wind blew.

The pigeon’s chest trembled in the light,

My head wards off the mold's bloom like fermented sake.
Lips trembling like red rubber
Feebly, yet with an air of intimacy, they hint at a private bearing.
I am now in the darkness of reflection and remorse—

I embrace the sweetly spilling-over sentiments.

On the white feather quilt,

The golden darkness of the birth month
contains sorrows.

Spearfield

Wearing pale crimson daytime garments, this foreign dream called you circled gracefully through my chest.

The foolish nursemaid with her obstinately gloomy face

She gazed in fascination, though vexed—no words came out.

Like smoke rising from burning sandalwood,

This chaotic human reclusiveness and ruthless vengefulness that feared nothing

Grew intimately accustomed within the boxcar of a gentle spring day,

Snarling at each other like a musk cat and brown squirrel.

Reclusiveness—in the resplendent clash of white teeth—the world of weariness peered into cyclone-patterned walls.

Bird Feather Whip

It felt as though nuns were visiting—in this indescribable loneliness and irritation, I went slack, devoid of all tension.

Jealousy, O Jealousy,

Stooping and wandering beneath soft wet leaves,

It is struck by the sad old-jar-colored whip of bird feathers.

You are the bride who births gentle agonies,
I am smitten by your demure guise.
O bride, O bride billowing like smoke,
I shall lean upon your hand and go.

Sprinkler cart apprentices.

You are the apprentices who pull sprinkler carts,
they leisurely roam through the wide riverside city streets.
Crimson and green and all luminous colors are covered and hidden,
only Silence and the wanderer of the aqua color of ruin roam about.
This is the unconcealable form of my life.
Ah, my endless loneliness—
scatter it throughout the near and far reaches of the town, scatter it.

Sprinkler cart apprentices,

Ah yes, before prophetic days are born,

scatter scatter my endless loneliness,

scatter my loneliness welling up like the sea.

Servant in Sheepskin

You are the Servant in Sheepskin.

You are the meek servant who carries decayed thoughts.

“You are the modest servant wearing red sheepskin.”

Beside that old, well-worn furnace,

“You are always waiting with vivid eyes.”

“Truly, you pitifully devour fresh ignorance.”

He wore soft sheepskin clothing,

listening to orders with cool eyes.

“It’s all right to be a little lazy,”

“It’s all right to play around a little,”

“When night comes, I’ll forgive your own thoughts.”

An old bird that had even forgotten molted feathers
traced a limp upon your head.
The deformity stretched onward.

I know nothing.
I sit vacantly.
And then, my head becomes disheveled like incense smoke smoldering.

Head on its own,
Like a fool, was overwhelmed by every sound.
A damp tree spirit sheathed in mold
Rebounded effortlessly.
Deformities without hope—
To where I could scarcely be called myself alone anymore—
Devoured and ravaged the traces of new life as they went.

I thus day after day,
I am buried within an old ash mound.
I cannot even see God,
Trembling, I stab and erase and erase the sluggish Death.

Scorched key

“Stay silent,”

“I feel ashamed to ask you such a thing.”

“Take this scorched and rusted key carefully,”
“rub it against a warbler-green supple paper file,”
“then place it on your well-used blue whetstone without causing scratches.”
I didn’t have any particular requests.
“Look—if doing it that way neatly fixes the burn marks,”
“return it to my hand,”
for I was devotedly waiting for its return.

Because the seasons progressed swiftly,
I had forgotten it just as it was.
This small key scorched through years and months too
would come to know its purpose again.

Pilgrim of Beauty

Long ago, the storm of wild beasts that stirred in my heart
revived with a chill on an early summer day.
Seeking fresh nuclei for every fantasy,
like a bird-woman from the South Seas with long hanging hair,
the single-minded heart of that time—agonizingly gone madly astray—
came again on this tranquil day of indolence like an old acquaintance clad in monastic robes.

What an aimless loneliness this is.

Cold melancholy that captivates people flows out like this fruit arranged on a white porcelain plate.

I was truly a Pilgrim of Beauty.

In the seedbed thrive sprouts of sorrow, sprouts of hope,

Along my path falls an unceasing rain of sorrow.

Autumn

Things call to things and delight,

The forlorn autumn’s yellow leaves sleep within a broad, generous bosom.

There is wind, there are travelers,

The sinking young heart thought of distant lands with faint makeup weariness.
My hand with a small wound
staggered as it chased the White Wolf.
Ah, Autumn,
Autumn scattered cold mist fire.

Deaf Dog
Silently listening
To this terrifying tale laid bare—
You who billow with dreams of primordial times,
Lifting your face toward the receding tide’s
Vivid hues—are you spellbound?
Beside your hind legs always lingers

The fragrance of mimosa flowers drifted.

To the Wild Sheep

O flock of sheep proceeding hushed through the fields,
Gazing tenderly at the evening moon over the lake,
The sighing—
What meditative union it brings to my heart.

A flock of sheep with purple horns,

Leap, leap,

Evening Moon spills its grace……
Upon us abandoned souls.

Intimidator

My Intimidator, startled, looked down from the treetops,

with those strangely twisted, hard black claws,

amid echoing cheers from Hades,

anticipating certain victory—it must have been pursuing my soul.

I no longer have the capacity to fear it or be frightened by it.

I am hazy, connected only to infinity,
Pain, wailing, and the misfortunes of this pitiful world have become nothing but the pain of rootless wind.

I have already been bound to the edge of eternal existence.
The zenith of my existence transcends the very air,
transcends all phenomena, resonating into water-hued mysteries.

Melancholy guards me.

Melancholy guards me.

Even when this heart dances freely onward,

Even when I fall into the decay of endless meditation,

Surely my Melancholy maintains my weak body within a subtle resonance of moderation.

Ah, you—Melancholy trembling as gently as a dove’s plumage—

Now, your beloved May has come.
May of bursting white dandelion seeds has come.
You, bathed sadly in this light,
Seek the love that envelops all the world.

From within the sand of the riverbed

From within the sand of the riverbed
Into the evening-glowing flowers emerged a plump round thing.
It was neither shell nor fish—
the phantom of my neck living severed from my torso.
My neck had grown ancient with years,
likely yearning to wander aimless, solitary paths without purpose.
There existed none to gently tend to it.
Chased at last by wind, my neck slipped into evening primrose thickets.

Grass on the Mask

Get out of the way.

The weeds growing upon the red flesh-colored mask

bent limply toward that direction.

Pierced by the poisonous bird’s beak,

the uncanny tonsured monk with long flowing hair appeared with a wry smile.

Forbearance that writhed its body in spirals

stuck out its long black tongue and trembled.

O season, O humans,

you all fall sideways,

mysterious flames bellowed and blazed, blocking my path.

Get out of the way,
I seek God’s white hand.

Incense Burner Autumn

O swarming birds,
O swarming leaves,

Deeply, with a dull thud, they fell into the valley floor of dark protection.

Raise the head—

Autumn that rustled softly was even now stretching forth,

For the weakened people

For the weakened people, I lit a censer that seemed to echo sound.

Ah, the voice heralding decay
Adorned with infinite beauty crosses the boundary,
Astride a white wooden horse it passes unperturbed.

The Reed Flute of Creation

You quietly surround me.
I am thrust into the bottomless dark abyss,
When I struggle in anguish,
Your light sparkles and glitters.
What draws out my hand is,
It is nothing other than the flow of your heart.
What gives birth to words as cool as morning dew is,
It is nothing other than your gestures.
You are always, always the new reed flute of creation.

O reed flute that sprinkles the water's surface,
O reed flute fleeing ever farther away,
Sing quietly and sorrowfully for me.

Spherical Devil

Gathering what gathers,

In a single box groaning dully,

The demon of this world that finally managed to open its eyes remained wrapped in a thin membrane, faintly breathing. The bewitching allure of falsehood bringing forth incense implements,

The life atop the silver and white wax lamp stand that clanged brightly—
it uniformly clapped its hands, wishing to disappear.

Behold, behold,

The giant red swollen foot that covers the world
The giant red swollen foot attempts to cast its shadow like a sunset.

Ah, O Spherical Devil filled with power and darkness,
May its resounding embryonic period be long, be long.

Fukurofu's Flute

Twitch spasm twitch spasm—hands of shed feathers in the darkness,

Those hands pulled the hill near and churned it into chaos.

And again, death’s wreath

They would send death’s wreath to your soft shoulders like rosebuds.

“Please listen,”
Even now,Fukurofu’s flute stamps its feet—
In blue smoke,your drooping body
Drives you farther,farther away—
Gardenia-colored vehicle

Behind the vehicles forming a procession was yet another vehicle.
Blue back flags stood lined up,
Where could they be headed? Here came young people—
Over clattering rough earth,
over small gravel laid out in sorrow.

People go by, smiling and fluttering their wings.

And then, the number of gardenia-colored vehicles

They were swallowed into pufferfish-like darkness.

Spring's Melancholy

O Melancholy,

O inexpressible, deep, deep melancholy of spring,

Upon the emaciated trunk, spring finally affixed the swollen sorrow of a living creature.

As if the undulating sea’s endless expanse were heading toward the distant horizon,

Ah, O Melancholy of this ceaseless regret,

Like grass trailing long hems within a greenhouse,

Sorrow swayed its feeble dependence.

In pigeon footsteps floating upon fantasy’s staircase

Sorrow gradually approaches the palace of nothingness.

Into the shining castle
The ship departing the harbor hoisted yellow sails and left.
The beak whispered to a cluster of leaves.
Seabirds burned smoke.

The seaside grasses nurtured the shadows of ghosts,
Into the boiling backflowing tide, I threw myself.
I removed the fish scales entangled around my body,

Into the castle shining in mud.

Silver Shackles

――Reading the House of the Dead――

Dazzling silver chains were fastened to the prisoners’ feet.

The chain’s links smoldered quietly as if—
summoned breath and compelled sighs，
stirring whispers like a bird’s wing swollen with power，

They cast light upon these prisoners shut in melancholy.

What moved the dark, gloomy-seeming prisoners' thicket of daily lives was

those silver shackles—their texture nostalgically familiar, their resilience formidable.

Turning their hearts toward the slender path of extinction—these people among the scattered—

They were terrifying visionaries.
They created vivid nests, created chicks—
they were migratory birds flying across the sea.

Expanding Body

My voice spreads far like a conch shell.
I hold down my stomach and stomp forward,
Sunlight scatters like pieces of scarlet cloth,

The air boiled with bubbles like the breath of blue womb walls.

Mountains and rivers and hills and fields—all became a single beast that followed me.

My feet became earth and spread out.

My body became fragrance and spread out.

Various laws become like scrap meat to my bait.

And so, I hide within the mute conch shell.

Deaf moon, blind moon,

I had not yet been completely destroyed.

Frenzy

Like insects flitting around a chilly fire
Whirling with impatience, trembling, cowering in fear—restless me.
The astonishment of the calf running through the field,

Under crimson blazing clouds ran a herd of beautiful calves with glossy coats enveloped in wailing.

The hook-bearing wind restrained me like a radiant jewel—immobile.

Awakened in the bottomless dawn of the ravine’s darkness, I welcomed the great and boundless caul.

Even if someone yearned for a kiss as fierce as a strong sea wind—one groomed with care—

All things without means are the deceiver’s alluring bait.

My frenzy is at the bottom of the sea

A clamorous drum was sounding.

Old Man.

The old man came to my side and sat down.
Leaning on a thin cane, he sat down gently.
The old man was watching my eyes.
A single light trembled on my back.
Like one assailed by a miracle,
When he began to laugh,
That mouth was ridiculously large.
The calm weather flowed,

Just as I thought my body might turn to smoke,
the old man looked like a crab that had grown a white beard.

A white-bearded crab

“You’re a crab who’s grown a white beard,
Your build is large, and you crawl sideways clumsily.
Before the winding stairs of the labyrinth that stores phantoms,
For years, you’ve been lying there.”

Various processions and banners passed before you, but—
without paying any attention to such things,

You indulged solely in your own solitary dream.

Boisterous laughter soaked your entire body,

It gradually sank down,

When it touched one end of the Earth's axis,

A sun radiating purple light spread across the entire world.

But you, just as before, hid in the noon where bats flapped their wings,
playing the organ with lazy hands.
Green Lunatic—
push through the sky,
Green Lunatic!
Within the rumbling tank seething with envy, the winged fish leaped about,
springing up upside down,
baring their teeth and snarling.
The tank rustled and shook,
the fish flashing their eyes as they tried to leap out.

O long-bodied Green Lunatic endowed with wind and rain’s freedom—
The way your body grows recklessly thin and long—
What is the reason for this?

No—I could hear the fish leaping.

You—use all your strength to push through the sky.

Twisted sails—

One was a yellow sail,
One was a red sail,
Another was a blue sail.
The three sails lined up and, while entwining, advanced toward the open sea.

It appeared to journey far above the sea,
In truth, it gradually coiled upward into the sky.
The shrill cries of seabirds flew through that space.
These sailcloths—
Because they were made from flayed human skin,
Inevitably, they coiled inward,

They did not billow the sail-cloth full with wind from the open sea.
The twisted raw-hide sailcloth coalesced into a single eerie figure.

Death’s Procession

Things bearing Death’s transparent guise, pleasantly piercing through,

Smoothly, smoothly, with no sound of obstruction,
Without a sound of dragging along the ground,
like a damp blue soul crawling over smoke,
they kept escaping moist lips.

To the Nameless Woman

O Nameless Woman,
In your eyes gentle coquetry comes to a point,
And those pupils dart like small fish,
Your soft cheeks
A plump abode of color and fragrance,
Your body grows slender and
Hands squirm creature-like.

O Nameless Woman,

Your parted hair—
dimly, tormentingly,
like the toll of evening bells, clung to my heart.
“Oh, Otsuka-san,
my legs are so limp I can’t stand it.”

I still remember that voice.
Beautiful, beautiful O Nameless Woman

Yellow Horse

From there, a shadow extended,
The evening sun undid its obi and lay down.
Ears like light feathers trembled in the wind,

The yellow-coated horse bit the bit and was tethered.

And then, the laziness that billowed up like kapok fluff—

Becoming the horse’s tethering post and crouching,

If one lay down upon the spread straw,

Seeping sweat becomes sustenance for prayer.

Vermilion Rocking Chair

O you who climb the hill,

O you who traverse the fields,

Ah, here we go again—O you who knock listlessly at the door,

The spring light swayed in, does it not?

The two of us placed ourselves upon the vermilion and gold rocking chair, and with this veil-like atmosphere, swayed lightly—lightly—like the neck of a Chinese lantern plant blooming in that greenhouse.

The Path of Dharma-Nature

I took off the kimono,
took off the undergarment,
and became naked like an apple fruit.
I earnestly sought the path of Dharma-nature.
The derisive voice that laughed at me,
the slanderous voice that laughed at me—
they were the voices of maggots exposed to the fully shining day.

My body ran vigorously toward dawn.

The grass of the path I walked—

each blade became a maiden,

stretched out their hands and embraced my legs,

stuck out their lips and licked my knees.

The cool and desolate field grasses

became beautiful maidens and extended their luxuriant bodies before me.

My youth became a beast and blazed.

Metal Ears

My ears—
the embroidery of golden thread took on color—
I felt a pain soft as pigeon down.
My ears were
trampled under a dusky demon’s foot,
crumbling away like asbestos.

My ears

Cast into the altar,
there they became a metal statue binding seals and curses.

My ears
stood in the narcissus wind
and resisted all enticements from things.

Bride of Jealousy

This heart,

My heart, winged and horned,

Endlessly seeking the warm breastwork,

Dashes recklessly through midnight darkness.

The wantonness of women was reflected in the mirror of this right hand,
the fragrance of racing breath once more made this left hand’s sword tremble.

The demonic monk dragged his hem, lamenting words,
serenely bright as he stirred the silver-bell demon.

The two distinct natures became the earth's womb.
In the valley, they gave birth to an ancient tree.
In fields and hills, they gave birth to a two-tailed snake that crawled about.

Death’s Old Man Riding a Frog

Death mounted on a gray frog’s back,

Rustling his meager beard,

And laughing while,

Death came along，waving his hands.
Those hands were like bats flying through dusk.
The aged Death
paid no heed to the slowness of the frog’s pace，

Death huffed and puffed as he rode on.

When viewed from the side, that frog glittered gold,

When viewed from the front, two eyes protruded and shone blackly.

Death’s face was white and translucent pale blue.

The aged Death circled round and round through the world in this manner.

Sunwheel Grass

Ascend to the sky,

Sunwheel Grass of the heart,
Climb the staircase where bells jingle brightly,
Vast sky's blue, blue countryside—creep into it,

My life will sprout buds there.

Now, I am enveloped in the painful, lonely snare of a demon.
Sunwheel Grass,

Honest Sunwheel Grass,

Relying on the sound of bells, climb and climb,

The mirror of fish scales dancing across the sky,

Before long, it will reflect your form.

Distended jewel

One evening, a large bat
let out a sharp cry and dashed about.
The tea-and-celadon sky

Opening its gaping maw to curse,
Dripping heavy malice,
Like an old tree’s hollow, it embraced the bat’s scream.

As I gazed,
the god’s lush white hair dangled all around.
Jewels distended like phantoms,
wriggling like leeches,
rubbed against each other’s bodies.
The distended jewels pulsatingly formed my brain.

Man Polishing Feet

I am a man who polishes feet.

I polish white, soft feet of unknown ownership.

The smooth texture of that instep,

is plump like a peony flower.

The beautiful pink toes of the foot I polish,

move as though breathing,

My trembling hands are shedding tears.
My thoughts that will never return again,

Like a skylark, they sing freely, freely.

The unfamiliar feet burning as my life’s prayer-flame—

In the crisp wind, keep moving just so forever.

Clustering hands

The sky was formless and clouded,
Upon my head without reason or permission,
Like lowering an anchor came clustering many descending hands.
Like a ghost scattering flowers through town,
They nurtured then raised one drop’s ovule,
Searched for faint path-scent traces,
In tangled hands’ love burned my head wildfire-bright.
Supple-moving white-cool hand-cluster swarm
Now claimed my mind’s throne committing incestuous harm.

Monster

Its body was covered in flaxen fur like old man grass's hair,

Its face sank into melancholy like a March female crow,

Though crawling on four legs,

At times it clawed frantically at things with pale talons.

The beast groaned low and lay down.

The overcast sunset scattered sparks cold as silver,

The beast’s form grew black and dreadful,

With the gentle breeze, [the beast] walked off into the distance.

A Standing Statue of Blooming Flowers

It pressed its hands together and prayed.

The summons of unseen beings arrived quietly.

I could not discern its face,

I could not discern its hair,

Piteously bearing a swarm of fragrances,
In dim twilight, before the chest, it scattered petals.

Blind Frog

In the darkness, there was something that chased a scream.
It was the Blind Frog.
A voice faintly stitched the soul’s unraveling.

What raises its head is the night's chalice.
It is the night's chalice heaped with gardenia-colored meat.
It is the white porcelain chalice that smoothly sings.
The frog's leg is crippled.
The frog’s stomach is emaciated.

The frog’s eyes are wounded by tears.

Cold Spring Melancholy

O spring Melancholy like a concealed sachet of fragrance,
Why do you strike my back so fiercely,
O Melancholy lurking within pale purple hyacinths,
Why do you claw at my chest so fiercely,

Ah, isn't that beloved friend trying to betray me?
Like dandelion plumes scattering wildly, O Spring Melancholy,
O soft Spring Melancholy crafting supple bends with ivory hands,
I tilt my head and surrender to your will.
Cold Spring Melancholy, O
Swaying smoothly over new sprouts only to vanish—
O sad, sad visitation.

Hyacinth’s Song

Hyacinth, Hyacinth,

When April comes, O carnation-colored Hyacinth that awakens my sleep,

O bluish-white Hyacinth with the noble bearing of a prince,

And then, O large purple Hyacinth that watches over my heart like a dear older sister,

O Hyacinth the magician who draws near a small carriage painted cream from afar,

There, bells ring like leaping white fish.

A silver bell that warms the soul rings.

O Hyacinth who chases me,
I shall forever flee into the space before your eyes.
O Hyacinth leaping like waves,
O Hyacinth quietly lost in contemplation.

Autumn of Vowel Rhymes

What flows departs,

What resonates shifts,

At the edge of whispers-and-sleep's great bundled flowers

Like a white-furred rabbit timidly trembling, I crouched,

Staring with eyes that sparkled like jewels,

I endlessly knock on the vast sky’s door.

Dampness's Small Horse

Isn’t this sad?

No matter what I do, tears flow.

That one with horns of pale, pale aqua,

Riding on the small horse’s gentle back,

I entrust my body—thin as a mountain snipe—to it.

This small horse that I always love,

Just when my heart flows away like endless whispering snow,

From somewhere, it comes to my side.

The small horse's ears reared by sadness were wet with fennel-colored dew. The legs of the small horse enveloped in sadness rested on the soft skin of the soil. And thus, the small horse's mane drawn by sadness floated like maidenhair grass tendrils. Light, light—the small horse's advance resembling withered grass rustling—at those pattering beats of the Timbale's melodic roots, tears welled up unbidden.

The monk above the forest

The monk came,
carrying a small grass-colored basket.

He flew here like a bird.
Truly, he was a monk like a crow,

He was a shudder-inducing monk who seemed to bring some kind of anticipatory torment.

He laughed.

The tips of those pale lips—

I felt as if they were piercing my heart.

The monk flew away.

Like rows of women’s naked skin,
Above the forest that looked absurdly white,
The monk flew away fluttering like paper.
Eyes chasing after blades of grass

They fluttered and floated,
blades of grass,
my eyes chasing after.
If I went to look,
there was nothing there.
A mayfly poised in sunlight
imitated the temple bell.
Slow,
slow footsteps of wind.
Ah,
what a gloomy autumn it was,
mist seeping into my eyelids.
A corpse with cloth wound round its neck,
plump,
a face staring fixedly as if exhausted,
that face and neck-cloth
listlessly settled like discarded fruit,

They were moistened by a pale blue breath like that of a mayfly.
The flowing wind aged,
that phantom was led toward a great abyss,
and sank imperceptibly away.
Then a black outline that had been bone remained behind.
Flowers spilling from the hand’s wound—
from the hand’s wound,
green flowers spilled down.
The form of my soft hand began the story.
Lazy wind,
lazy stealthy rain,

For a time,

Sit around this pure white table and stay,

The green flowers spilling from the wound on my hand,
because they touch pleasantly against everyone’s skin.

Elderly Horse

I beckoned with my hand,

the horse standing lonely atop the hill,

the elderly horse weeping atop the hill.

Smoke-like melancholy proliferated,

Torment danced like a hedgehog,

A scorched crimson soul,

I, from the top of the opposite hill,

was trying to bring the exhausted elderly horse.

“Gentle elderly horse,

in your eyes dwells the shadow of blue water plants.”

There, extending a pure white translucent hand,

There was something trying to steal the shadow of water plants.

A snorting, painted witch

Narcissus-hued sky,

In the twilight sky that cultivated new stratagems and souls,

Glasses pleasantly ablaze with aquamarine,

In the reflection of those glasses, beyond—

A painted witch with a voluptuous body,

A supple woman’s body—as if chirping softly—

Each time the slender, fragrant lines wavered,

A body that trilled with coquettish chirps,
A sticky phantom and
Coldly gleaming extravagance entwined distinctly—
A woman’s body, limply blue and transparent—
As her movements grew more coquettish,
Like a night bird in shadows,
A woman’s body trilling as if chirping—

The eyes of the woman who sells gentle whispers,
The woman’s fingers smoldering passions like rain,
The toenails of the woman scattering potent perfume into the darkness,

The thickly-painted witch’s breath formed a slow circle,

The witch’s breath comforted my tired eye.

A pallid Monastic Rose,
wrapped in gorgeous dust as if blazing up,
gloomily proceeded,
laughed gloomily.

The Monastic Rose,
like a milky shadow flowing across a woman’s skin,
crouched, lingered, wandered restlessly,
resembling the sound of a lizard’s tail,
flashing with terrifying allure as it lurked.

Within all white things,

The monastic rose hiding away,

Festering melancholy,

Rot—a melting and flowing turbulent bouquet,

Beauty’s carnal desire,

A pitch-black smoldering dog of wisdom,

My hands were bound in chains,

They let out a thin moan.
Passing before me was
a beautifully pallid Monastic Rose,
devoid of light and luster, a formless mass,
the pallid rose passed by.

My two hands
rustled along with the chains.

Monastic-robed Dog
From deep within the forest where a whistle grew distant,
Flower veins had passed through.
A dog with a wrinkled forehead

The dog lumbered forward.

The dog moistened its eyes like an old person,

The dog told its tale with its long, slimy tongue.

This dog,

The dog wore a loose-fitting mouse-gray monastic robe on its body.

When the dog stuck out its long tongue to speak,

The hem of the loose monastic robe flapped like the wings of a songbird.

Red, red—the sky’s fire-like grinning face,

The monastic-robed dog remained silent without letting out a single bark.

The Chromatic Phases of Hands

Before the signs of the storm, the lines of hands—
They quietly began their tale.
Red—beginnings,
Yellow—joy,
Purple—the rotation of unfathomed motion,
Blue—the departing shape of hope,
And thus silver and black—
They spoke of madness’s undeceiving path.
What ascended into the sky was a color mixed of silver and olive—
Hydrangea-hued blurred hands—the golden monarch standing at the door,
In the deeply hollowed palms,
What bore speckles like starshine was death’s prophecy,

Hands as lustrous as chestnut horsehair were
a person indulging in fresh hypocrisy.

Ah,

From out of nowhere threatened me—

the quaking roar of a bronze bell.

Lily of the Valley Perfume

The footsteps of fish dwelling within green clouds,

Disheveled hair that bestowed a parting kiss upon the door of the past,

Floating navy-violet wings,

The female bird, lost in thought, staggered.

Flashing a hook of deep blue,

The female bird invited distant souls to their lodging,

The desirability of your hazy, tormenting words,

Your words surrounded my body like a white moon,

Like the dense fog of a summer night's smoke,

The fragrant words that intensely coiled around—
they tremble limply against my body.

Perfume Cemetery

In the smoke,
In the fog,

In the fog,

A perfume cemetery casting off sorrows,

A perfume cemetery swelling with illusions,

In that cemetery, words of corpses hung fragrant like living bird feathers.

The warmth of perfume’s skin,

The creak of perfume’s bones,

The tremor of perfume’s breath,

The sensual glimmer of perfume’s downy hair,

The fickleness of perfume’s speech,

The lingering sway of perfume’s gestures,

The lush swell of perfume’s tresses,

The sentient tears pooling in perfume’s eye—

From the Perfume Cemetery drenched as if by rain,

In multicolored array, various forms appeared,
The flames of decaying creatures flared up,

[they] let drift the lingering scent of a woman who had taken monastic vows,

They pierced through the wing of a small bird leaping back into the past.

Gathering of Perfumed Faces

Soaring hyacinth perfume,

Heavily sinking white rose perfume,

the spiraling rotten Cineraria perfume,

the tuberose perfume barring the way in the night’s darkness,

The Italian black lily perfume that soaks deep into the flesh, lost in contemplation,

the lilac perfume shedding its resplendent robes,

the tulip perfume that kneels shedding tears like a fountain,

Amaryllis perfume, perplexed about embarking on a pilgrimage journey due to its youth,

Acacia perfume, friendless, each one pining away from love,
Cypress perfume that pushes aside memories to build a white phantom house,
Lily of the valley’s perfume, hinting at gentle skin and making human hearts flutter.

Dancing Dogs

Aligned their noses,

Aligned their shoulders,

Two dogs settled their bodies with low, growling voices.

Synchronized their frantic breaths,

Their eyes swelled red like strawberries,

Two dogs trembled with low growls in loneliness.

Like the skin of waterweeds blooming within the marsh’s warmth,

What smoothness they possessed,

Glossy, like a moonlit night, the bright coat—

Dogs gnawed by loneliness,

Howling and baying,
They danced upward through the faintly yellow twilight.
Aligning their white claws,
The two dogs, like creeping vines that climbed,
They danced upward into the faintly yellow twilight’s silent void.
Exchanging that suffering,

O two dogs journeying into the boundless sky,

Look at your emaciated shoulders,
Look at your slender tails,
You too are companions of those ceaselessly vanishing.
Into the faintly yellow evening sky,
The two entities ascended while exchanging suffering.

Apple Cuisine

If one were to take it in hand,

Awayuki apples that vanish like a dream,

Like the skin of a woman wrapped in flannel,

Puffing up and swelling, the Awayuki apples,

sweetly glutinous as if melting on the tongue,

Awayuki apples resembling the delightful feeling of jealousy,

On a pure white plate

Beautifully heaped and foaming,

They wait for the perfume-soaked silver fork to pierce them.

On a serene evening with the sound of wind knocking at the door,

Lonely autumn’s
The nostalgia of apple dishes!

Round bird

The woman draws a round line.
She plays a green flute,

The woman drew a round line.
She made the bird’s feathers fly.
The woman waved a round line.
She spilled sweet bitterness.
The woman was a bird,
the woman was a round bird.

While remaining silent,
She perfumed the air with her ceaseless cries.

White Wolf
The White Wolf
howls within my back．
The White Wolf
in my chest，in my belly，

Awoo awoo, it howled.

The White Wolf grown fat

in my arms, in my groin,

bow... bow... it howled.

The White Wolf grown fat like a dog,

opening its crimson mouth,

howling distressingly while—

was wandering restlessly all through my body.

Blind Crow

From a pale peach-colored agate incense burner,
The mysteriously surging smoke billowed up,
The faintly wandering brown moth,
There showed its white belly and fell dead.
Autumn thus entered our chests,
Autumn came like an invited companion.
On Autumn’s cold cloudy day of pale laughter,
The blind crow walked from branch to branch, crying.

Crow with eye sockets split as if torn,
O eye of the crow reflecting various clouds like hydrangea flowers,
Your voice that began to cry as if throttled made even autumn’s tree leaves shrivel.
From within your voice,
crimson poppy flowers burst forth.
With the sensation of tearing apart and chewing rabbit meat laid upon a faintly clouded celadon plate,
your voice was weeds growing on phantom ground.
You spread your wings, scratched your claws, probed with your beak,

The blind crow walked from branch to branch,
“Gee-o! Gee-o!” it wailed at the top of its voice.
Within the endlessly extending dark palace,
like a bluish-white lightning burst,
the blind crow’s crying voice resounded—gee-o! gee-o! gee-o!

Spider’s Dance

Crudely strode through the wild hills.

In the twilight’s desolate soul, a companion’s wings beat,

resembling even the pleasure of dim lamplight flickering,

the beauty of the alluring smile’s fishhook.

With no walls to strike against, no doors, no windows,

vainly cast itself into the depths of the blue sky’s abyss,

on the sorrowful face of the century flowing azure-azure,

nonchalantly, secretly,

it continued burning the shifting perfume torches.

A single large yellow spider

Like a magic trick, it smoothly let down its threads,
It wove the fate of that strange heart.
Ah,
The sun that muttered alone at twilight’s field-edge
A sorrowfully distorted smiling face,

The yellow spider continued to weave, click-clack-click.
A large spider clinging like a woman,
Unaware of exhaustion,
Legs, hands, and spinning eyes
Like rustling reeds, moved sharply, sharply.

Specter of the Fingertips

From bluish-white fingertips,

Small birds fluttered away.

On the glaringly clouded surface of the ground,

With one leg weakening to its end,

Spiraling as it bears down.

The sound of a drum like the belly of a jet-black snake
lamented in blubbering bursts.

The moonlit rain fled from my bluish-white fingertips—
like a bristling autumn fruit—
as I twisted my thick slimy neck
and twisted my alluring neck—
muttering autumn’s voice
to suppress its coldness.

Strums became strummed,
Scratching became scratched,
Suppress became suppressed,
Turns became turned,
Ramble became rambled,
Maintaining first-person POV and past tense baseline:

Strummed the torn threads of the soul in blubbering bursts,
Feverishly, listlessly, scratched my body,
I suppressed the lonely autumn's coldness.
This twisted, winding autumn loneliness,
In the moan of your lurid neck that strangely turned,
I feebly rambled on.
Trailing glistening white mucus,
Upon your undulating neck

The scent of words hurled—exceedingly rare.
Blubbering bursts of a mysterious drum sound reached my distant ears.

The mysterious drum sound that comes reaching my distant ears.

The loneliness of parting
That person parted from us.
I neither particularly liked nor disliked that person.

And yet,

When I saw that person leaving us,

When I thought of them departing with their familiar gaunt face,

A groundless loneliness

Seeped and flowed deep within my chest.

The loneliness of living currents where beings part ways in this human world.

That person’s faintly pale face—

When I imagined it vanishing from among these familiar furnishings,

We met without purpose, we parted without purpose,

Within a few words—twilight’s whisper grew clouded.
That mysterious time,

The distant fading footprints of mine—
I made them flutter like bird wings with a flapping sound—
A flicker of laughter

From within that face shut tight with quiet sorrow,

At times spilled forth
A garish flicker of laughter.
A white-glistening flicker—
Whom did that laughter answer?
A flicker like the sound of silk rubbing—
Whom did that laughter welcome?
Within the face locked with sorrow bloomed
The flower of aqua light:
"Halt what lies beneath the seams—
Toward whom does the zephyr of your skin blow?"

Summer Night’s Rose

A summer night when hands were gripped by a blizzard of laughter and whispers,
Eyes amidst disheveled black hair swayed unsteadily,
Fell like the pregnancy of a forest thickening to mirror.

Upon the new skull,
sparsely clustering and clinging purple rose petals,
piercing through summer night’s silver decadence,
a staggering, flowing rose monster.
Behold,

An arm white as snow became the queen’s rose,
A roundly breathing torso formed a black large-petaled rose,
The plump leg hiding allure between its toes transformed into a turmeric rose,
Shoulders soft enough to spill secrets in passing bloomed as crimson roses,
The abdomen swelling plumply beneath the obi materialized as a blue deathbed rose,
A smooth-scented budding rose—furtive and secretive—emerged,
A festering old woman’s rose resonated with dissonant sound,
A silk rose flower intertwined tongue with tongue.

Upon the new swaying skull
Swarmingly lunging ashen diseased roses，
O flesh of roses emitting sighs of perfume，
O flesh of roses rustling as you swim through the fragrant abyss，

Hurry, hurry,

Hurry to the prayer of revelry choking in silence.

Wooden Mermaid

The voice beckoned from afar,

quietly made the crimson dove nod,

hollowed the autumn of the frayed rising fire-rope.

The voice hollowly escaped,

kept watch over the hollow,

transferred fragrance onto the flowing form.

Lips tinged blue,

slept on the sea’s pillow,

in the shadow of clustering sinking algae focused eyes.

A sixteen-year-old girl in Western attire

Her soft round shoulders,

though they had not yet sprouted buds of allure like a blue water peach,

The sight of slightly sweat-tinged downy hair clinging snugly to white skin
somehow stirred a strange, sweet appetite—the kind that made one want to bite into and devour it.

Fourteen-year-old maiden

Sky-blue water flowed from her form,

Pure eyes that seemed to absorb things,

A noble nose,

Pale pink cheeks as if harboring dew,

Small lips storing sweet saliva.

Like a golden lamp,

Your light burns softly.

Melancholy Sleeping in a Chair

Brightly bearing that deep-shadowed profile,
calmly holding it like a flowerpot,
enticing the caprice crouching within the rocking chair,
Melancholy rendered Death’s form indistinct.

In the green—the evening rocking chair’s torment—
Does it drink down the goblet of short life’s pollen?

Ah, the green chair’s whispering ditty creeping near me,
Melancholy resembled the sorrow of flowing fish, swaying and swaying,
It repeated the ripples of sorrow.

Phantom Rose

Spring had come, but—

I am lonely.

Upon one shadow, another shadow of memory piles,

They obstruct my phantom rose.

Oh rose singing in a voice thin as a flute,

Oh white rose with a green sash sowing beautiful seeds of sorrow,

In the hazy spring path,

Oh rose, oh rose, phantom white rose,
I vainly seek your shadow,

I wander without heart or mind.

＊

Like a faint swan’s wing,

white roses blooming ceaselessly at midnight,

in my cupped hands blooms a phantom flower.

Oh white rose of ceaselessly blooming scent,

oh faint rose blooming within heartfelt prayers,

ah, blooming ceaselessly amidst sorrow...

oh scented rose, oh scented rose,

your long eyelashes beckon me.

＊

In the pure white glow,

you close your beautiful eyes and invite me.

Oh white rose emerging on the twilight path,
Oh white rose with a green sash emerging in the pale darkness,
You close your radiant eyes,
In my lonely chest, you bloom a flower.

＊
Oh rose in the depths of my heart where torment piles up—
I hide it, but—
As night deepens, oh sorrowful white rose that emerges so vividly—

Your secret face filled with manifold thoughts—
Like the moon in water,
It floats up within an endless flow.

＊

One petal, then another petal—rose buds beginning to swell—

As they linger, the rose’s sorrow perfumes the evening’s voice,

Ah, my white rose flowing into the phantom realm,
Upon your pure white cheeks,

I listen to the sound of a lonely cricket’s chirping.

＊

Oh quiet beloved walking through dusk’s shadows,
Oh white rose who left wordless speech in my heart,
Within the dampness of a pale-blue phantom,
Their lips met—or so it seemed.
Each day newborn, that day’s rose,
Cold, yet—

The heart that seeks a solitary path,
I carry a basket of memories as I go.

Rose Apparition

Neither morning nor noon nor night
the rose apparition moving around me,
you rustle your green sash and bind my heart,
in my transient body,

You pour down an unceasing rain of fire.

Reaching Rose

Rose, you sway in my head like a crow.

Like a wild dove making a strange sweet voice to parch the throat,

You frolic within my thoughts.

Like a wingless thrush

You walk while summoning shadows.

In this lonely way, each time dusk and night come,
my white rose comes vividly visiting me.

Fastening a green sash, the white rose returning as a phantom,

Your form was a living jeweled snake,
clop clop clop—your dream conveying distant hoofbeats,
the rose tried to extend midnight’s hand toward me,
pattering, pattering, it trickled away.

The Temptation of the Rose

Became a single fragrance,

A phantom rose born like a migratory bird,

A phantom rose that connected threads to draw in the mist above graves,

With a chest grown tight, the rose left behind the form of a strange old jar,

The rose that did not speak,

Ah

The rose that lived on by devouring human souls in phantasm,

Your clinging hands are hidden among the flutes of weeds.
I crumble away along the new path.
Rose, O rose

O mysterious white rose of limitless longing!

A dream blooming on sorrow's branch

Beloved, O beloved,

Your breath—

I fastened sapphire earrings to my ears.

My ears grew itchy.

Beloved, O beloved,
Because your eyes were as beautiful as stars,
I gathered them one after another.
And then, I have filled my chest with your eyes.
Beloved, O beloved,
Your little finger, like velvet, squirmed restlessly,

It touched my nose.

I felt such serenity that I could have died just as I was.

A small bird nesting in the wind

――To October’s Lover――

When I first saw you,

I became like one blown upon by a gentle breeze.

When I saw you again—the third time—
I was as if struck by a floral projectile,
I couldn’t help but smile from the joy.
I met you, I parted from you,

When the same day continued for several days,
I began to sink into sorrow.
Truly ephemeral are the thoughts whose destination remains undecided,

A small bird nesting in the wind,

It keeps crying endlessly, crying on and on,

A heart of longing flowing from nowhere.

Legs

A day when a light drizzle fell,

In front of me walked two girls.

The beauty of one girl's white legs I will not forget.

Round smooth heels spilling from bluish-purple nail beds,

faintly flushed,

were alluring like cherry blossom petals on a spring day.

The Koiebichiya flower wrapped its petals and glistened.

Ah, a day when a light drizzle fell.

Ah—the shimmering of beautiful legs like the heart of spring,
like a wet white waterbird,
floated lightly in my thoughts.

Like a wet white waterbird

they floated lightly within my thoughts.

The Fantasy of Embracing a Lover

A tiny wind goes,

A tiny wind goes,

slides over your eye,

slides through the gaps between your fingers,

like a white canary

sliding, sliding over your breasts,

A tiny wind goes.

Daisies and sakurasou and blue roses twisted and tangled,

Your round shoulders tremble like a storm, minutely, minutely.

A small Tibetan bell
Having painted purple camellia flowers,
In the moat of the sect’s nocturnal hours held aloft a brilliant light,
O bell dozing on the back of a gaunt horse of melancholy—
That faintly dim silver coldness
Rustling pale white, pale blue,
The vivid rawness of thorns in that visage obscured by stormy mists.
The bell planted warts of doubt on monastic-form feet’s soles,
Pressed down makeup,
Coiled bamboo leaves into spirals,

Even when parted and parted again, it keeps alive the fish of bonds that know no end.

Lonely shadow

Where does this relentlessly forlorn shadow come from—

From within a grove of the distant future where yellow fruits ripen,

Right in the rustling flow within my chest,

It is like a white fish swimming refreshingly.

Your voice

My ears know both the front and back of your voice.

Your voice like a morning breeze sliding over water moss,

Your voice like a dream tangled in gloxinia down,

Your voice too, like cold pearl beads touching each other heard within the mist,
Your voice too, like a phantom sun fluttering silver and golden swords,
Hide the moon,
Hide the marsh water,
Hide the aquatic creatures,
Your clear voice too, like one climbing a snowy peak alone with vivid clarity,
Your voice too, luminous like camellia and poppy flowers plopping down,
Your voice too, softly enveloping my soul with thin lace,

Spiraling up, then quietly descending,
your voice too, like a skylark in the riverbed whispering while minding its surroundings,
I knew very well
the shifting quality of your voice that flowed in like a fragrance from afar—
there in night's loneliness, in loneliness,

Now, I am remembering your voice, many, many times over.

Blind Jewel Merchant

I am in December’s dense mist evening,
I am the blind merchant walking totteringly through the town.
My hands too stretch and extend bluishly and diffusely like mist.

Stairs like the weight of a dream flitted about,
In my handheld leather case,
I held a glossy turquoise,
a tourmaline that resembled a snake’s eye,
a garnet rolling its great resonance along a puppeteer’s threads,
a pale lavender thin diamond suited to a bride’s soft fingers—
I was like a hook that had descended from the sky.
In the shadow of enveloped willow branches, even I,
aiming for the mottled ring of the floating moon,

And so, I walk on totteringly.

A sixteen-year-old boy’s face

――Self-Portrait of Memory――

Your face enveloped in pale indigo shadow―

May's lesser cuckoo sang.

In your face like pale indigo velvet―

The moon's fragrance lapped steadily.

Ah, youth who grew ever more like a faint moon the longer I gazed,

Young man, ever bashful as a white wild poppy,

Your face that turned bright red even when gently touched by a finger,

Slender eyebrows,

The brightness of long, slender eyes,

Your plump white cheeks like flowers,
Your lips soft like waterweed,

Your face trembling limply with shyness and dream and light.

You who return to the snowy country—

Like wind, you passed through me.

Like wind entangled in branches,

Like wind sleeping midnight within leaves,

A stranger you passed through my heart like wind.
You who return to northern lands where snow lies deep even in April—
How chill-desolate your guise must bear itself going forth.

The petals that you, a stranger, scattered unawares upon my heart—

They might disappear, they might disappear.

But your tender-hearted efforts will comfort me forever, like the tolling of a distant bell.

The Prolonged Ordeal of Anxious Hearts

A gathering summoned blue light,

Buried the flickering flame about to vanish,

White, white, this loneliness walked on.

Neither the flowers on the water’s surface,

Nor the sound of birds’ footsteps hung in treetops at dusk,

The prolonged ordeal of anxious hearts was carried from void to void,

Tulip petals scattered and fell,

The heart was crowned with snow,

The heart is troubled by sleet,

The heart wanders in dawn’s fine rain.

April’s Face

The light fled its hues,

with footsteps light,

giving birth to flickering light while,

By the riverbank it extended wings.
April’s face was soft,
melting into bashfulness while—
roughly disheveled,

It strung together the sound of flower buds splitting.
Voice—
O harsh voice of April—
Disordered though it was, disordered though it was
Your soft face
On thin silk’s surface reflected a blooming swarm of blue butterflies.

Season’s Color

It tried to fall yet did not fall.

Slowly,

that which flowed between leaf and leaf,

to the point where things blurred together,

calmly, limply,

that which stroked the surface,

it slipped through hands—

something frail,

the wind’s tongue briskly frolicked with the water,

aqua,
green,
sky blue,

and thus became an endless distant silver.

My body moved
within shifting color hues.

April’s Day

The sun shines,

The sun shines,

April’s sun flickers dimly like a cluster of embers,

Endlessly within the vast sky’s emptiness,
it swells and overflows.
The flowers，flushed by heat，
speak empty words.
A soft wind—swaying like an umbrella beneath solar glare—stands blocking，
meets leaping spears of light.

The sun shone,
The sun shone,
Violently tearing through indigo cloth,
Brilliantly, it continued to shine.

Age Illuminated by the Moon

Beneath the amber-tinted moonlight’s base,

That which extends words to rustle upon imaginary steeds,

Illuminating countless surging lights while hiding in shadows,

Restraining the boat that flickers in darkness,

They cause swelling heart-flowers to spill abundantly,

Changing and shifting,

Linking in succession,

Profoundly, quietly, the age that lives within the Moon’s flow.

Moon-scavenging flowers
That voice was a whisper of water snails gliding over smooth sand,
Dripping things formed mottled shadows and rose as smoke,
Plucked off petals and cast them away,
Criticized themselves,
Within the faintly gasping ring
They attempted to capture the mist-fading moon.
Unfold forth,
Flower moistening your lips alone in the shadows.

I long for white things.
In this recent coolness of heart,
I long for countless white things.

I long for countless white things.

The azure sky stretched clear across,
the sun’s white light gently rested,

Dew glimmering in the shadow of reed leaves,

Without form or shadow, white flowers in full bloom emerging within memories,

White flowers behind treetops where passion had faded,

And the warm white face of snow,

The immaculate heart of a thirteen-year-old maiden,

Even as it crumbled, still frolicking and rising—the green whiteness of youth,
The smile of the April night’s moon,
The throbbing of a first love’s breast tinged with faint red rouge,
The faint whiteness of a beautifully powdered nose, the faint blueness,
In darkness shone exquisite fingers; the alluring breath’s groan,
Breast-like flowers bearing plump swellings gasping in lamplight’s reddish hue,
The indigo hue of secret dawn in bedchambers where collapse flowed and writhed,

In the early summer rain glimmered the woman’s white-radiant feet.
Rather than that—the flesh of magnolia flowers overflowed within the temple,

Rather than that—the colorless, voiceless, formless emptiness of heart—
not seeking rest, my skin’s transformation ceaselessly emerged like smoke—
the moon shattered into fragments wrapped and nurtured living things.

Dream-Bearing May

Green leaves fresh as if dusted with powder,

Paulownias and maples and cherries,

Willows and cedars and ginkgos.

Turmeric-colored grassy thickets,

the fragrance of noon where phantom flowers bloom,

May, attaching lures of dreams to swaying threads of emotion,

What drifts are heartbeats, sighs, and the play of shadows,

It is a wave of perfume unraveling and melting away.

Thoughts and thoughts crowd and jostle,

Separated hands and hands exchanged eyes,

Pollen butterflies fluttered at robe hems and vanished,

People were flowers, trees were flowers, grasses were flowers,

Floating, flowing, pausing to breathe—the confluence of flower and flower,

Entwining, tangling, flushing with anguish—the purple disheveled flowers,

The voice was sweet—the wingbeats struck ears like melting wax,

The skin’s radiance trembled wetly, precarious as a morning peony,

The heart, assailed by fitting dampness, staggered,

With no path—only embraced by swaying sweet voices,

This refreshing ephemeral happiness bearing green bubbles,

Tilting obliquely—the aimless wandering of confusion refused to scatter,

The egg of a breeze, stretched thin in the net of fear and worry.

A person walked from bud to bud
Still did not bare their hearts
When listening to a lover’s voice in the distant past
Swaying pale red bud flowers
They seemed to walk along one by one apprehensively
The flowers’
Fearing they might be opened by human hands
While thinking of their future’s faint scent
With softly polished white feet
They walked around that area
In evening dusk between flower and flower

like a flower bee scattering pollen
drenched in your dewy-fresh voice,

In a sleepy state, they walk along.

June Rain

June is seething rain, rotten-colored rain,

slime-gray rain,

rain that conceals light and breathes within windows—mouse-gray rain,

wetting white faces—the presence of people lingering on the road,

Rice bran rain stifling seething thoughts, earthworm rain, drooping cloth rain,

the ceaseless thread of dark rain,

Decay of things, disease, and birth—the feet of this lingering rain,

I blocked every eye in my body and secluded myself,

At the edge of the downy moon, I wander out dazedly.

The Egg Moon

O gentle breeze, o gentle breeze,
I am a bird with indigo wings,
The waters flow,
The gentle breeze warms the chest.

This damp June day
expanded things and struck them with satisfaction,
laid a pure white egg.
The gentle breeze’s damp face also
nostalgically stirred the heart;
the pure white egg’s smooth radiance—
O egg, O egg—
a bird with indigo wings flourished them as it gazed at an egg.

Pure white egg, swell, swell,

On a clear day, make its skin flutteringly swell.

A woman’s fingers on a spring day
In this lukewarm, viscous air of the dream,
Every last one of the women’s fingers
Trembled with joy while dampening slightly,
Faintly tinged with fading, settled into stillness,
Hiding the scent of white clove pinks, fled,
Like pulsating waves exposed the trembling roses of the dead.
They, wet like fish that emerged of their own accord, alluringly shone,
Opening eyes here and there to devour faint glimmers.

O fingers, O fingers, O fingers of the spring day,
You are a fish trying to return to the water again.

Yellow Kiss

I’ve already forgotten.

Lurking in the thicket of leaf shade

I peer into a smooth shadow.

For no particular reason,

The surroundings were an undulating evening.

The woman squirmed restlessly like a white creature.

My lips

Like a fish,

ha wo ha wo ha wo ha wo ha wo

It was... it was...

It was a bright, yellow kiss.

The Joy of the Strangled

I, who was thinking of fingers,

You made my quivering hair clamber up high,

You summoned the raucous sleep-cries of a monstrous bird.

Billowing forth, still serenely containing fragrance, they seethed like mist.

For the diversion of your fingers,

Please constrict my faintly pale neck that stagnates like a moonlit swamp.

I heaped sigh upon sigh,

Before your phantom, I dreamed of death in manifold forms.

Warm like a swaying snake—smoothly, gently—
with your beautiful fingers, please wrap around my neck.
My neck undulated languidly like a ghost ship, growing distant,
hiding within your pure soul.
Daily those brightly gloomy fingers frolicked with me.
Blinding as flowers in full bloom—O new lover—
around my neck please wind your blissful hazy fingers.

Death was like a feather fan
in this hazy night's
path of invisible pattering rain—
I sensed the sweet terror
of my decaying mortal flesh,
felt that saccharine dread.

In the fire of this hopeless love's poison weed,
my heart's faint flame
was consumed day by day,
while joyous Death
hinted at its transparent form
like some lingering fragrance.

Ah, tranquil Death—opulent as rippling waves—
come quietly to my side
without incident.

Now, the visit of dear Death—
warm as a feather fan—flickered behind me.
Snow is waiting.
There, snow is waiting,

There, blue transparent snow waited,
Lining up invisible blades,
They glowed faintly like flames.
A ship, huh,
A ship with a face of billowing snow, huh,
Such things,
They moved to and fro.
Someone's face appeared to have gradually elongated.

Hair

Your soft hair
It is the midday moon.
Enveloping a shyness that lags behind all things,
containing tiny murmurs,
It wears mist upon bright words.
Your soft hair,

The midday moon was trying to vanish into the sky.

Twilight Conversation

You, from afar, speak to me,
In this pale glow,
At the edge of this wind’s flow that does not even rustle.

O lover,

You, like a dream, speak to me,

Like a drooping flower bud,

Deeply fragrant faint words,

Like a shooting star, glittering words.

O lover,
You are always swaying,
In twilight's pale glow,
With me, you exchange whispers.

A skeleton in a jester's costume

I shamelessly let this spear-bed of loneliness fester and spread,
tumble into the ground,
and like a wild beast struggle, break through, scream, tremble—

Dashingly glittering with makeup, let my alluring Death stream forth,
abundant and bluish-tinged yet pure white,
now then O my skeleton clad in motley-striped jester's costume,
in this evening brimming with human blossoms,
like a single pregnant bat
shall I go fluttering along?
pale horse
I gaze at the form of something distant,
while dreaming even in daylight I keep gazing.
It is
it is like a hibiscus petal,

It was also like clouds flowing across the sky,
Something propelled my body from behind.
It also seemed like a feeble, unbearable force.
And so, from anxiety to anxiety,
I made my way through the sandy plain.

Am I not a single blue horse?
Even if a blue blizzard were to blow
Even if a blue blizzard were to blow by your side
Your legs shimmer like light.
The shadow that seeps into my eyes
In the February wind forms fruit,
Upon the hill of a lifetime echoes the voice of living.
The path along which that voice fades
The path along which that voice fades,

pale and white, it sinks into prayer.

morning waves

--At Izu Mountain--

with my heart somehow drenched,

I wandered amid distant wave after wave,

I drowned in the endlessness of surging light.

Dazzling ripple-grass,

At memory’s edge, light’s tumult crumbled down,

Grand roses gently

In my chest, wings of light were beating.

White Staircase

the shadow did not lay bare my body,

like the hum of a giant hornet’s wings flickering through grass clumps,

kindled fire, kindled flame,

and again created a distant pallet for dozing,

ceaselessly flowing,

upon my heart,

created a white staircase.

white fire’s form
I am in the sun’s flower.
I follow time’s flow without thought nor word,
drowning in distant matters of you.
At times I think it slightly fades—
it is yesterday’s trace passing by—
Truth never fades in any age

from soul to soul it connects onward
it is the form of white white fire

Aqua wind

Wind,

O May wind coming through the pine grove,

O pale green wind,

O gentle breeze, O gentle breeze, O wind of slumber,

O wind that makes my hair sway supplely,
My hand, my foot
And my heart drowning in dreams
O wind that awakens in aqua light,

sorrow and loneliness

O wind that extinguishes them one by one,
O soft newly-born silver wind,

O wind, O wind,

O lightly swirling, rustling seaside wind,

The wind, like your hand—white and cold—

Like rose petals’ shadows, plumply

swaying swaying,

My bubbles now upon the muddy surface.

Gentle breeze within eyelashes

O gentle breeze,

O gentle breeze drawing near muffling its sound,

O gentle breeze carrying a fragrance like secret whispers,

O gentle breeze conveying distant journey-thoughts,

O gentle breeze nestled within white dove’s feathers,
O gentle breeze that tells of memory-days within eyelashes,
O gentle breeze, O gentle breeze, O wind of light, the gentle breeze
Within my chest bloom today’s flower yesterday’s flower tomorrow’s flower.

Swaying Phantoms

You are a flower wandering and staggering through light,
You are a lone fish in the voice endlessly darkening,
Dripping hearts,
Hazing words with faint presence,
Layering dreams pale and fluttering.
You float upon water’s surface while flowing,
Calling forth dusk’s distant quiet.

You are the formless beacon of the sea,
You are the ceaselessly emerging pistils of a lifetime’s blossoms,
You appear,

You hide,

You stagger and bloom fragrantly within my heart.

When the indigo-blue phantom approaches,

I drift without place,

Profoundly drowning in dreams.

Like murmuring snow falling incessantly

My heart flows and flows,

Softly playing upon death’s lips.

You are a flickering shadow that comes and goes without path,

The shadow tangles glowingly,

The shadow tenderly and wildly billowed.

Rose Promenade

1

Deepening the shadows on the ground, dimly slumbered the rose’s lips.

2

Roses danced upon the white-hot chopping block—rose, rose, rose.

3

Dawn-colored monastic roses opened pale and supple.

4
Layering thorns upon thorns—ever more intensely cultivating its fragrance—the rose.

5

The grief-stricken rose walked on, water-mirroring, trying to hear the sound of wings.

6

Like holly leaves sleeping, chases dreams—the mist-colored rose.

7

Surrounded by nettle shadows, emerging from boundless hues—a pearl-colored rose.

8

Within the taboo of silent prayer blooms the formless pale monastic rose.

9

A blind drifting rose lured by the gilt moon.

10

In the hushed sinking grove, a pale snow-colored rose entombed a bell’s resonance.

11

A rain rose brimmed with past moonlight.

12

Dusk’s gasping rose released breath.

13

A south-colored rose sighed ceaselessly through the day.

14

A black obsidian rose played in flames, wearing midday boots.

Reflected in the cloudy day’s face—the sky-window’s rose.

The palm hides in water—the unborn rose dreams of a breeze’s dream.

Moving like goose down—invited by the wind—the rose does its morning makeup.

Amidst the green grew a rose, hands and feet overflowing with wind.

A ruby-colored rose that collects invisible dusk tears, stitching them together one by one.

Within manifest fragrance harbors unmanifest thoughts—a single rose returning to stillness.

Within eye and eye, swaying—a crimson and golden rose carrying sky-colored time.

Morning after morning crafting strange slumber—the forgotten earlobe-colored rose.

Morning after morning crafting strange slumber—the forgotten earlobe-colored rose.

Having accumulated sorrows until it could not even twitch—shadows upon shadows swarming—the pupil-colored rose.

Swaying gently—imbued with fragrance—youth taking flight—a rose above the wind.

Swaying gently—imbued with fragrance—youth taking flight—a rose above the wind.

In the deepening hue of sunlight, amidst flaring gusts—still fluttering open its hands—the pale moon-colored rose.

Within the blink—filled with fragrance—scattering across the path—the futile grandiose-petaled rose.

Like bare snow—etched into a heartbroken dream—the rose of peerless beauty.

28
A shy, shy rose that feared the rainbow of remorse and tried to escape the evening star—having forgotten time.

29
A mayfly-hued rose slept on in rippling water like a fish.

30
Calling swans to play—carried by night mist—the blind rose.

31
The rose hiding in blue sea depths; the rose that struck fragrant bells—thorny yet soft.

32
A rose whose heart quivered even at scent’s whisper—tossed by evening stormwind’s drizzling rage.

In the blue sky—a rose concealed with golden cloth.

In the blue sky—a rose concealed with golden cloth.

With a fortress of smiles—wrapping its heart deeper and deeper—the ill-fated rose.

In the piling flute tones—intensifying reluctant yearning—the celadon-colored rose.

The rose—pretentiously proud of its own transience—crumbled, revived in tears of ignorance, sobbing profusely.