Pathway to Japanese Literature

The melody of a heartless song

Like a cluster of grapes

Picked by compassionate hands

Would become warm wine

Grapes, deeply entwined

Though not that purple one

By the compassion of a kind-hearted person

In shadow lies a cluster, dense and full

That is due to the song’s youth.

Both flavor and color are light,

Most must be cast aside after fermenting.

The empty illusions of a dozing dream

One: Autumn Thoughts

Autumn

Autumn has come

Autumn has come

One leaf—the flower bears dew

In the wind that comes to play the koto’s sound,

Green grapes turn purple—

They have transformed into nature’s wine.

Autumn has come

Autumn has come
Even the autumn grasses—late-blooming yet quick to fade—
All become resting places for evening frost.
The wine of laughter into sorrow’s—
Into the cup it indeed should be poured.
Autumn has come
Autumn has come

Though even plants crimson in autumn,
Who would not be drunk on autumn?
In the loneliness of a wise-seeming face—
You play the flute; I will sing.

First Love

The newly pinned bangs—

When you appeared beneath the apple tree,

The flower comb placed before—

I thought you one adorned with blossoms.

Tenderly extending a pale hand,

The apple given to me—

In pale crimson autumn fruit,

My first love—there it began.

My heartless sigh—

When it clings to those strands—

The chalice of joyous love—

Into the chalice of your affection I have poured—
Under the trees of the apple orchard

The narrow path formed of its own accord—
Who first trod this path—this keepsake?
How I yearned to ask—
The fox’s craft

The little fox hiding in the garden—
When no one was around, it emerged at night.
In the shadow of autumn grapevines
stealthily stole dewy clusters.
Though love was no fox,
Though you were no grape,
In secret did I steal forth—
My heart stole you away.
When I washed my hair,
When I washed my hair, a purple hue—
Before the young grass, hues emerged.
When I lifted my feet—blossoms and songbirds'
There was a grace that followed me.
When I gazed—iridescent clouds'
Rolling and unrolling picture scroll.
The wine I took in hand—of fine wine—
I seemed to beat back youthful sorrow.
When I listened closely—the Song Deity's
Having come to play the jade flute

When I open my mouth—the poet's
A single verse—I sing of love.
Ah, how strange it is—
Though my heart burns with passion—
You yearn for me

I shall not be outdone by those tears.

Your heart—

Your heart—like a cricket's,

As if lured by the wind to sing

In the clear morning light upon flowers and grass

You must be shedding precious tears.

That jade koto being strummed—

Even the resonance of a single string—

Boundless in your heart—

As a melody it must indeed resound.

Ah, why is it so easily stirred—

With your gentle heart

To this love of mine so profound,

That you do not deign to touch it is my regret.

Within the Umbrella

Two holding up a single
Even if they concealed their figures within the umbrella,
The rain of passion fell incessantly
Never a moment dry were these sleeves—
Face to face pressed together,
When they tried to step forward—how wistful!
Plum-blossom gloss on raven hair—
Within the wildly fragrant umbrella—
A shower of love soaked deeper
Drenched in longing was this fleeting dream?
Dyed indeed was the blazing crimson silk lining—
Tormented by rain—entangled legs
When I listened to singing—Umegawa,

Cast away passions awhile—I say!
Everywhere love plays its game,

That Chūbei's Dream Tale

O longing rain—fall if you will.

Autumn’s setting sun glows ever brighter

Before the umbrella's tears dry

Taking each other’s hands, we will go and never return.

Concealed within autumn,

The white chrysanthemum I planted—
When its appointed time arrives
In the twilight shade of a single cluster of blossoms,
Hidden in autumn, it blooms at the window.

Do you know—you—
Of heartless autumn birds
A single melody escaping into voice—
Do you know—you—

Deeply clear morning tide’s
Pearls hidden in its depths
Do you know—you—

In the dark night where even irises are unknown
Quietly moving star fragments
Do you know—you—

The maidens not yet seen playing—
The koto’s melody hidden within the breast
Do you know—you—

Song of the Autumn Wind

In the mountain village where loneliness knows no time—

Silver grass disheveled—the autumn wind blows.

The autumn wind arriving quietly—

From the western sea it blows forth,

Swirling, clamorous white clouds—

Soaring, their destination comes into view.

Twilight shadows loom high—autumn dons yellow vestments.
At the koto's sound in paulownia heights,
When I hear its lingering tone,
The wind's coming becomes known.

In the evening, the west wind sweeps down.
Morning autumn leaves drift through the window.
Morning autumn wind comes rushing in.
Quails hide in evening's quail nests.

Gazing afar—even the blue mountains
The hues were dyed anew in autumn foliage—
The autumn wind that transformed frosted leaves—
Was revealed in the sky’s bright mirror—
How pure was the west wind’s
First, when it blew upon the autumn leaves—
How lonely was the autumn wind’s
When it came to those crimson leaves—
The Brahmin who traversed the path—
Scattering west and east,
In the autumn wind that blew and drifted—
Drifting leaves—
The eagle-hawk's morning-beating wings
As if they traversed heavens of light and shadow

The autumn wind that blows violently—
Wings bear a voice and power.
Beholding—awesome—the west wind’s

When it sweeps the mountain's leaves away
How sorrowful—the autumn wind—
When countless autumn leaves must fall

Though people swing sharp swords,
Indeed, when counted, they have their limits.
Though the tongue reviles the times,
The voice perishes in an instant, it seems.

High and fierce—fields and mountains

O autumn wind that bewilders breath!
Until the world be cast asunder,
You show no sign of ceasing your blowing.
Ah—the desolate expanse of heaven and earth—
The autumn day within the jar—
Drifting with fallen leaves—
Who knows the wind’s path?
The clouds’ course—
Alone she stood in the garden—
Parted begonia flowers—
Gazed at the sky—the passing clouds’—
Yet more secrets laid bare—

Two Short Poems

I

In the quiet evening

To dream—

From the world’s troubles,

To briefly escape—

Other than you—
None know—

Went into the flower shadows—
I wept for love.
The path of dreams now past:
When I reflect,
Love itself becomes the sin.

Sin—love it is

Prayer and duty
Because of this sin
To that realm of delight,
I will not go
With you, my dear,
Hand in hand,
To the dark underworld
Let us depart.

II

Quietly illuminated
The moonlight’s glow—
Why does it never cease
To stir contemplation?
The radiant shadow
Even without a voice

Into the viewer’s heart
it steals in—

Even if compassion be taught,
they know no compassion

beyond this fleeting world—
my decaying self,
unwashed thoughts—

This moonlight—
Which has no voice?
Which is sorrowful?

Ardent Adversaries

On a single flower, a butterfly and a spider
The small spider guards the flower with resolve.
Kochō, intoxicated by the flower’s allure, wears a drunken countenance.
Though it dances on and on, there is no recourse.
If the flower exists for the small spider,
What becomes of Kochō’s dance?
If the flower exists for Kochō,
What becomes of the small spider’s thread?

Eventually, one flower scattered.

The small spider slept there, though

The small butterfly, light of wing indeed,

Vanished without a trace.

Parting

A man longing for another’s wife climbed the mountain and,

A Song Sung While Gazing Longingly at Her House

Who could halt the traveler

When tomorrow I vanish into clouds?

Who would heed the traveler

Though I would tell you tomorrow brings our parting?

Is this pure love—a lonesome shell?

From brooding on my solitary thoughts—

Even should love overflow and muddy,

I would have poured my tears upon you—
The sorrow of loving another's wife—
If you knew this sorrow through your compassion,

At least call me a sinner—
To have you deign to name me so—that alone would bring me joy.
This wretched self, ignorant even of discernment—
From love’s torturous prison—
I fled the lash of sin’s scourge—
To love unto death—this I resolve.
Who does not seek the flower?
Who does not lose themselves to dazzling colors?
Who, upon seeing what blooms before them,
Who does not seek to pluck the flower?
Even in love’s blossoms they play—
The jealous butterfly’s existence is anguish.
Both wings breaking bit by bit,

The wings' hue faded.

Human life—a spring night’s
That which we call dreams—how sweet they seem—
Deeper than dreams—no, deeper still—
If only someone thought of me...
When plum blossoms bloom in their season—
If only lotuses would bloom—this I pine for in sorrow—
When lotus flowers bloom in their time—

If only the bush clover would bloom—this I long for.

No sooner do I wait than autumn comes

Though bush clover blooms on the path I tread,

Turbid and waiting, my love—

It has become a pure resentment.

Homesickness

The Song of the Monk Who Fled the Temple

Shiso’s Song

Farewell then,

This is our parting from this world—

Having fled—the temple where I long dwelled,

The white walls of the temple’s storehouse’s inner sanctum
Before my eyes they appear once more—

Farewell then,

If one dwells there, even Buddha’s abode—

A dwelling transformed into flames—
From a heart without comfort
Flowing and falling tears—ah
Farewell then,
Even if the oil of the heart grows turbid
I raise the lamp high—

Affection is a flame that burns hotly—
In beloved dust, I shall burn.

II. Six Maidens

Ofu

The maiden who has traversed the common course,

I have crossed the path of dreams.

Looking back upon the slope of my life,

When I gazed upon countless mountains and rivers—
the tranquil flow of Edo River—
born at its coursing edge,
beneath cherry blossoms' shadowed bank,
I became a maiden.

Where Miyakodori drift upon great waters,
along shores where currents pour their course,
through young grass where white violets bloomed—
this self of mine, so dream-filled—ah!

Purple clouds crowning ninefold heights—
serving at the Great Palace—
Seiryōden's spring night...

I was illuminated by moonlight,
carving clouds, engraving waves,
floating mist and beckoning sun
at the gem-lit platform's rail -
such evenings of spring rain,
so lofty the human world's

I beheld with my own eyes the glistening splendor,
witnessed reverently throbbing forms.
The fragrance of a solitary garment lingered.
The morning star began to twinkle,
as if moving through the morning sky,
until the surrounding light faded away entirely.
I beheld the figures of prosperous people.
The day journeyed across the heavenly sky,
its shadow tilting
as renowned twilight faded into nothingness.
I beheld the end of those who excelled.
In the imperial garden’s tranquil spring—
hidden among flowers, I wept.

I lean by the window in autumn light
I yearn for a friend beneath distant evening clouds.

Having lost an elder sister,
I departed from the gate of the Great Palace

When I came to Edo River this day and looked about,
Autumn—what a desolate prospect.
The cherry's frost-touched yellow leaves fall,
Edo River that flows never to return!
The water runs silent in its course,
My thoughts with footsteps grown so slow.
As I wander unknowing through this world,
Unable to bear my youthful life,
I lay me down on riverside grasses,
Smiling through tears—ah, this self of mine.

Okinu

Soaring through the heavens, the fierce eagle’s

Having fallen into the form of a human maiden,
When I take shelter in a flower’s guise,
I thirst for tempests and hunger for clouds—
Only the art of soaring through heaven—
Though I will this yearning heart to cease...

This self of mine with long black hair—
I was born blind.
If my former self were the lotus,
Tears would be dew upon autumn flowers.
If my former self were the small koto—
Sorrow would be a slender string's note.
Now, in a past life—an eagle's form—
Wings surpassing a maiden's frame—ah!
Ah, at times my heart—
Having cast all things aside—
The world—a tedious field of sparse miscanthus—
I deemed this a thriving abode.
My body—a helpless cricket—
Crawled through night's wild grasses,
Merely making idle sounds,
I thought to sing a song—

When I give my body to color,

The maiden's heart becomes a bird
When I give my heart to love,
The bird takes a maiden's form—
A maiden yet a sky-borne bird.
Though born an eagle, this mortal shell
Wanders lost 'twixt heaven and earth:
How cruel this fate bound to ground!

Osayo

Of the desolate tide’s rugged shore,

Beneath the crag's shadow was I born
As the white steed of morn and eve—
Brooding over a distant hometown
Strangely maddened by things—they say
People of the world must speak of me—

Truly, this self must be mad—
To have remained a maiden until this age—
Sorrow runs deep; my hands grow weak—
My clenched thoughts—

My flowing-hot tears
My heart knows no respite

In disarray, maddened by all things,
I resolved to blow my soul into the flute's melody.
The hand grasping the flute burned like fire,
My ten fingers trembling violently.
My lips grew parched for sound—
There was grace in how I handled the instrument.
Through violent, heaving sighs,
The bamboo pipe must have clouded over.
Though my hair became tangled and fell,
First I must heed the breath I blew within.
In that phrase where I poured all strength,
My boxwood comb clattered down.
When I blew, it flowed; flowing,
Playing the flute washed away my tears.
In brief pauses between notes—
Could no lasting emotions dwell?
Having mastered seven passions' voices,
May even the Song Deity hear this sound—

When I play joy,
Birds halt their songs upon the boughs.
When I play anger,
Fish in the rapids retreat to the depths.
When I play sorrow,
Even lions would shed tears.

When I play joy,
insects cease their chirping.
When I play love,
flowing water turns back.
When I play evil,
scattering flowers halt.
When I play desire,
there is a resonance in the heart's darkness.
Sing of the transient world’s single melody—
the flute’s dream path in restless turmoil

"Do not suffer, my friend.
Return awhile to the flute's sound.
Having wiped these falling tears,
Quietly listen to my flute."

Okume

Driven by yearning, I left home.

From this shore to that shore,
Thinking to cross, I came—but when I looked,
Plovers cried in the dusk.

In love, I abandoned even my parents completely.
This fire in my breast that knows no quenching—
O river wind blowing through the hair at my temples—
At least think of me with pity—

River waves darkened as rapids grew swift,
Flowing and shattering upon the rocks—
When I thought of you, there was no ceasing—
To be dried by love's flames.
Yesterday’s rain fell without respite.
Though the waters surged higher—
Night after night I wept—this cascade of tears from my love would never reach you.
My waterfall of tears would never reach you.
Do you not know of this love?
It could not be a mere flower-and-bird painting.
The sky's mirror reflected—characters etched in sand—
It could not be the sound of wind in the treetops.

Do you not know of my love?
Touching your valiant hand—
Ah, the lipstick on that mouth—
Could it ever cease without reaching you?
Love is my body's shrine

Since you are the shrine’s god,

If not upon your altar,

To what should I dedicate this life?

Break then, break, O river waves!

Though I yet live,

As river waves surge high and onward,

For one god alone would I yearn.

Not just my heart—hands and feet too—

My entire being is flame.

My thoughts in disarray—Ah, love’s
A thousand strands of hair flow in waves.

Otsuta

In the spring night where flowers were faintly visible,
A life that resembled my form—
Dimly, my parents—

They vanished as two shadows,

In this world, I am truly an orphan.

Am I but a shadow born from shadows?

Now, with no salvation left, this body—

Saved by the young holy one

The dear bangs of a maiden

I have indeed become a maiden.

The young holy one spoke thus:
"If you would but bide your time,
do not take those persimmons."

In the joy of being addressed thus,

This year’s autumn was already deep.
She urged someone to behold that autumn first—
when she offered persimmons to the holy one—
the holy one graciously touched those lips.

If these persimmons were so beautifully colored,

Why did you not tell me sooner?

The young holy one spoke thus:

"If you value your life—

ah! Do not drink that wine!"

In the joy of being addressed thus,
wine was among the consolations.

Urging him to behold that spring first,
When she offered wine to the holy one,
The holy one became intoxicated as if in a dream.

If the wine was this delightful,
Why did you not tell me sooner?

The young holy one spoke thus:

“If you who hurry along your path—
Do not listen to songs of delusion.”

In the joy of being addressed thus graciously,

A song too is the shape of the heart.
She urged him to first listen to that voice,

When she sang out a verse,
The holy one's soul became intoxicated too.
If this song is so delightful,
Why did you not tell me sooner?

The young holy one spoke thus:
“I am one who probes the truth.
Do not become a strayer from the path.”

In the joy of being spoken to thus graciously,
Passion too was one of the paths.

She urged him to behold such thoughts.
When I pointed to my own breast,
the holy one swiftly fell into love.

“If love is this delightful,
why did you not tell me sooner?”

That autumn day at twilight,
with no heart for idle wandering,
when something suddenly caught her eye, she took it in hand—
a pebble whiter than snow.

The young holy one spoke thus:
“Could this be the stone of wisdom—this very one,
for its hue is too precious?”
She has kept it hidden from others and will not let go.

Okiku

Long black hair—
Soft—
a woman’s heart—
Who could know?
Men speak
Words of eloquence—
Believing them sincere—
Let there be no complications.
A maiden’s heart—
Shallowly—
Words too transmitted—
Ah, the charm—

Disordered and long—
Temple hair—
On a small boxwood comb—
Sweep it up—
Ah, moonlit herbs—
Must not vanish—
Even love—
Whose words—
To love and seek death—
Emerging from Yomi—
Passionate affection—
Whose song is this?

For the path’s sake—
Shedding blood—
Perish in the land—

There was a man—
Jibei—which one?
Love or name?
Chūbei too—for the sake of a name—
they perished—
Ah, since ancient times—
Perished for love—
The existence of men—
Do you not see?

A woman’s heart—

No—even more so—
the depth of deep affection—
how profoundly it dwells—

Koharu—for love—
shedding blood—
Umekawa—for love—
died for its sake—
Oshichi—for love’s sake—
burned for its sake—
Takao—for love’s sake—
perished for its sake—
Is this not sorrow—
Kiyohime—
turned into a snake—
because of love—
Is this not cruel—
Sayohime—
turned into a stone—

because of love—

A man's love—
so frivolous—
cast aside each time—
mere transient affection—
Never love—

Maidens—
Do not grieve—

My companions—
The time of loving—and
sorrow—and
Which endures longer—
Which fades swifter—

III. The Dawn of Life

Grass Pillow

Evening waves darkened, plovers crying—
Though I was no plover,
Fluttered the wings of my heart,
I flew toward that lonely realm—
In the single path of a youthful heart,
No solace found, I lamented in despair—
The ice in my chest congealed—

melted into tears—

White waves washing reed leaves—

flowing and emerging from rocks—

Overwhelmed by thoughts—a grass pillow

How many now—the count of these grass pillows?

How sorrowful—this human existence,

Seeking solace for my weeping—in vain—

I entered the pathless forest.

Why did I seek a path that did not exist?

Could I too be that—this sorrow?

In field’s edge, in mountains, in valley shadows—

Unseen mornings and evenings’

Without light, autumn had ended.

My thoughts grew faint; my body darkened.

Looking at the lingering autumn flowers,

Flowing onward without knowing its destination

Tears fell into the water—

If I likened my body to morning clouds—

Evening clouds become rain—
If I liken my body to evening rain—
Tomorrow’s rain becomes wind—
Thus I become a fallen leaf—

Blown by the wind, drifting—

Borne along by morning’s yellow clouds—

Crossed Shirakawa by night—

Is it because I am now a self without a path—

I long for the pathless wild—

Distraught, I wandered even to Michinoku’s Miyagino—

I strayed even to Miyagino Field.

O Miyagino Field, abode of heart—

In disordered, fervent body—

The sunlight grew faint, and the grass withered—
How welcoming this desolate field!
My solitary ear—
I heard the north wind as a koto.
In these eyes steeped in sorrow—
Even colorless stones I saw as flowers.
Ah, the anguish of solitude—
With none who had truly known its taste—
To whom was I to speak on this winter day—

How desolate was the scene of the field
When I gazed toward the capital’s direction,
The sky was covered by winter clouds—
Hailstones fell upon me.
My sleeves had frozen shut with ice.
Wind mixed with sleet blew fiercely.
The stream’s water formed thin ice.
Beneath the ice, what sounded—

Was it water flowing to the sea?

Crying wingbeats brought solace—

O Kasasagi hidden by clouds—

The light too grew faint in cold sky’s

Thou too didst choke in desolate wild—

On winter’s day when tears froze—

With no light left as dusk deepened

Human traces and grass alike withered completely—

Ah here I wandered alone—

Alas one who went drunkenly—

When stepped on frost pillars crumbled—

What drunken weeping’s muffled sound—

That song’s voice too plaintive—

How joyful—to pluck sound from things!

O child of man treading wilderness edge—

Plucking melody hands froze completely—

What fate for this itinerant’s life?

How gentle the year, still in its youth
Still untouched by first love
You who walk hand in hand—
What do you hide beneath that guise?
Unable to bear the field's desolation,

Frost upon frost on withered grass—
I trod through the pathless way—
when I arrived, the winter sea stood cold.

In the morning, on rocks by the seaside
Leaning back toward my hometown’s
Though I gazed toward the capital’s direction—
Those that answered were waves alone.
Dusk on the desolate rugged shore’s
Prostrate on tide-stained sand
Gazed where sun sets—
What welled up was only tears.
Desolate indeed—the rough waves’

When shattered against rocks and scattered—

Alas—the winter day’s
When returning with the tide
Who gazed upon the sea path—
Who did not long for that hometown—
Who watched the tide’s course—
Who did not cherish this mortal world—
On the desolate shore unmarked by calendars—
As I wandered alone on the sandy path
Sleet-mingled rain clouds’
Fell to become the tide—
The far-off surging sound of the sea
To my ears, accustomed yet lonely—

How strange was the faintly heard sound—
Still fresh and young—the field-path bird
Ah, what a rare melody!
When I traced the voice’s path—
Green feathers still tender—
Could that too have been the first song—the bush warbler’s—
Spring had come—it seemed! Spring, oh spring!

Though white snow still lay piled,
young sprouts budded forth in verdant hue—
though my heart may dwell elsewhere, on the sand—
Spring has come—it seems! Spring, oh spring!
How joyous—borne upon the wind!
When I thought it seemed to be coming—?
By the seaside where plum blossoms' fragrance wafts—
by the shore, a tall great rock—

Climbed up and gazed out—
Spring—had it come? The daybreak’s
distant sound of the tide in the dawn’s first light.
Spring

I. Who would think—
Who would think—the bush warbler’s tears
On a winter day when even tears freeze
A youthful life—the spring night’s
A fleeting moment in a dream shifting to flowers
Ah, very well—to fine wine,
I will sing through the spring night
I meet with the fragrance of plum blossoms
When I think of spring, unbeknownst to anyone—
Upon crimson cheeks—
flowing hot tears—ah,

Ah, very well—in the flower shadows,
I will sing through the spring night
With even my own self forgotten,

My troubled heart at least—
When I tried to grasp spring’s visage—
Plum blossoms blooming at the sleeve’s edge—
Ah, very well—to the sound of the koto,
I would sing through the spring night

II. Dawn

Crimson, slenderly trailing—

If only I could become a cloud at dawn—

If only I could become a cloud—

Emerging from darkness into light,

If only I could become the sky at dawn—

If only I could become the sky—

Adorned with spring's light

If only I could become water at dawn—

If only I could become water—

Soft from being trodden by pigeons—

If only I could become grass at dawn—

If only I could become grass—

III. Spring Has Come

Spring has come.

Spring has come.

O first song of the tender bush warbler!

O last year’s parting, make your farewell known!

O white snow lingering in the valley,

Bury and conceal last year's winter.

Spring has come.

Spring has come.

Lonely, cold, without words,

Meager, dark, without light,

Ugly, heavy, strengthless—

O sorrowful Winter—go now

Spring has come.

Spring has come.

O pale green young grass,

Trace your path across the distant field!

And next, O crimson spring flowers,

Dye the treetops!

Spring has come.

Spring has come.

O Mist, O Clouds, stir forth!

Warm the frozen sky!

Spring Breeze bearing flower fragrance—

Awaken the sleeping mountains

Spring has come.

Spring has come.

O morning tide that brings spring—

Wash away the withered reeds' leaves.

O young crane entranced by the mist—

Young Crane, take flight through the youthful morning sky.

Spring has come.

Spring has come.

Severing sorrow's water dropwort roots—

Frozen tears—where linger they now?

The heaped snow melts away—

May today's young herbs burgeon forth!

IV. O Sleeping Spring

O sleeping Spring, lovely and young

Do not conceal your form,
Merely shut in on this day,
In all people's pure abodes,
Awakened Spring's true visage—
Still keep the essence of lingering dreams.
Sleepy Spring, awake, O Spring!
Before the wise ones notice,

Young lavender morning mist.
O Mist, wrap your sleeves about you.
Ever-joyful nightingale’s—
O birds, sing forth your melody!
Sleepy Spring, awake, O Spring!
Bound in winter’s ice,
awakening from ancient dream-paths—
willow-thread disheveled hair—
adding a plum blossom comb—
comb back the disheveled locks at your temples!
Sleepy Spring, awake, O Spring!
As you tread—the valley’s early bracken—
the undergrowth sprouts, hastening your steps.

Firmly raise and advance, Spring!
Blow spring's eternal breath,
Bloom with the first plum blossoms' fragrance!

V. Strike, O Drum!

Strike, O drum of Spring's sound!
The winter day was buried in snow—
The sorrowful dream had been sealed away—
The world had transformed into spring days.
Drawing forth last year's inaugural spring haze—
Drawing shut the curtain of Mist—
The thread stitching flower to flower—
This morning too, the green willow had sprouted.
Drawing open the curtain of Mist—
"Do not seek to glimpse Spring."
The shade where flowers bloom fragrant—
This was to be called Spring's stage.

Little Butterfly, frolic not with the flowers,
Dancing in gentle dreams,
Intoxicated, your feathered sleeves fluttering open—
Lull Spring's form to slumber.
O green-feathered nightingale,
Stitched on a plum blossom hat

Of dreamlike tranquility, this spring day’s
Sing the melody high!

Short Poem

Though I draw, it never runs dry.

Young water—

With you, let me draw—

That spring

It knows no thirst.

Young water—

With you, let me blend—

That spring.

That young water—

embodying myself

In spring’s heart,

May I well up.

That young water—

embodying myself

With you, let me flow.

Flower shadows

Morning Star

Embodying myself as a floating cloud

If I do not emerge in tomorrow's sky

How could one know of the Morning Star’s—

The crimson hue of light

Embodying myself as the morning tide—
If I do not flow forth to reach the sea

How could one know of the Morning Star’s—
The pure and sorrowful glitter
The morning star's cherished—
Exiting through heaven’s gate of emptiness

From the deep and distant shore
That the mortal world drew near
The morning tide’s dawn verdure

The white stone in the water’s deep depths
Gazing through starlight

Count the morning’s age.

The mountains and rivers where wild birds cry out—

Waking from last night’s dream—
slenderly trailing dawn haze—
daybreak mirrors the figure

The night held its melody.

Morning bore its sound,

Through threads of starlight woven,

The dawn-harp lay silent.

A morning sky still tender and new,

Amidst stars shimmering through and through.

the light, so very young,

Were I to name it—the Morning Star.

tidal sound

welling and flowing

やほじほの

There it lingers.

Sea’s koto

The melody ran deep.

Of myriad rivers’

myriad waves
summoning and gathering
When the tide swelled full,
serenely
resounded afar
the sound of the spring tide

Drunken Song

You and I—between journey and journey—
If there lies something between you and me:
Drunken sleeve-song grasses—
I would show you when sober—
Before youthful life slips away
Joyous spring grows old so easily
What treasure does any soul hold?
Your crimson face—

In your eyes—tears dwelled
In your brows—melancholy lingered
Upon those tightly sealed lips
There—a voiceless lament resided

“Preach not the nameless path.
Journey not upon nameless roads.
Rather than lamenting futile things—
Come and weep in beautiful wine.”

Days of spring devoid of light,
The lonely restlessness of solitude
In the bitter savor of worldly wisdom—
“You have aged, traveler.”

"In the candlelight of your heart's spring,"
"Illuminate and behold this young life of yours."
"Should petals scatter ere their bloom-time comes,"
"Is it not sorrowful—this being of yours?"
Without so much as a sidelong glance, he hurried on.
"Whither do you hasten?"
"Here lie koto, flowers, and wine—"
"Stay, I pray you, traveler."

Two Voices

Morning.

Who hears the morning’s voice.

Breaking through sleep and dreams,

Riding upon clouds adorned with hues,
Sung by myriad birds,

Appearing in heaven’s far reaches,

There is light in the eastern sky.
There is time there—there is beginning there.
There is a path there—there is strength there.
There is color there—there is verse there.
There is voice there—there is life there.
There is a name there—singing—
Rising to the sky, spreading across the earth,
Together with the lingering stars,

Within the light—morning lies concealed.

dusk.

Who hears the dusk’s voice?

Wings of haze, a sash of clouds.

A robe of smoke, sleeves of dew.

The weary and troubled strife

Casting into the far reaches of darkness

Night’s messenger bats’

Even as they fly, their voices cease not.

Here is shadow, here is labyrinth.

Here is dream, here is sleep.

Here is darkness, here is rest.

Here is the enduring, here is the faraway.

Here is death—singing—

Resting among plants and trees; walking through fields.

Together with the sun sinking yonder
In colorless darkness, dusk lies concealed.

Elegy

Mourning Nakano Shōyō

“How many pity the scholar’s fragrant bones? / Autumn enters Changan—dreams turn desolate. / By the qin terrace’s old score, willows before the tavern— / Two thousand years extinguished, all elegance gone.” This was one of Nakano Shōyō’s *Ten Poems of Autumn Resentment*.
Shōyō’s formal name was Ikei; his childhood name was Jūtarō. They say he came from Uwajima in Yoshū Province.
He had been an extraordinary talent at the College of Humanities, yet perished at merely twenty-seven years of age.
The posthumous manuscripts of Shōyō—both principal works and two additional pieces—none lacked traces of his ardent heart.
What stands recorded on the left transcribes his pristine lament: "To the waning moon I say—cease your endless sighs; / We too have lived lives steeped in beauty." Together these lines are raised up to preserve our remembrance of this genius.

Nine Poems Longing for You Nakano Shōyō

Thinking of you, my heart is wounded; thinking of you, my countenance withers.
Midnight, I sit beneath pine boughs; dewdrops abound like tears.
Thinking of you—my heart turns desolate; thinking of you—my bowels are rent.
Last night my tears streamed; this morning they’ve all turned to blood.
I show you brocade-lettered poems; I send you grand-texted volumes.
Suddenly I notice fragrance at my brush tip; outside the window, plum blossoms whiten.
For you I prepare silken brocade; for you I build a golden house.
Within lies a mandarin duck painting; eternal spring dreams of a hundred blessings.
I present you a famed incense case; remember Han Shou's favor.
Do not hide behind autumn fans—the bright moon illuminates your brow's traces.
I present you a pair of arm rings; jade treasures worth a thousand gold.

One engraving: never break the vow;

Visiting you, I pass beneath the terrace;

Standing at the gate, I dare not enter—

Golden orioles sing across a thousand li;

Suddenly bloom peach blossoms at the head house—three or two blooms resemble you.

Her delicate form—three parts moonlight;

Wholly grasping flowers’ and moon’s splendor—

Alas, how sorrowful—flowing away

To inscribe a name that water cannot claim—
Now remain only discarded song drafts—
What shall I do with this endless sorrow?

Alas—how sorrowful!—the ink that stains,
Dyed in hues, the flowering tree’s...
In the sound of the song you composed,
There was the resonance of a fragile life.

Alas—how sorrowful!—the previous life:
A body like a star suspended in heaven’s vault—
The dim light of dawn that was human lives,
Vanished without revealing light.

Alas—how sorrowful!—in the same world,
Born into this existence,
Without even forming a bond of friendship,
You departed already—alas!

Bearing cool tears,
To the point of resembling grape-jewels—

In conveying that lingering image—
How enviable that form—alas!

Born into the same temporal world,
The shared life’s dim-lit dawn—
Crimson flowers from you have scattered

I live amidst eightfold weeds—
Alas, how sorrowful and radiant.
Behold the flowers that have begun to bloom.
Why must I linger thus unceasing—
Even in their bloom—without waiting—they scatter.
Alas, how sorrowful and radiant.

Behold the flowers of affection and love.

That love—so immaculately pure—

Hear how they vanish, all too swiftly—

Though you are no flower—

No flower—yet more than flower

Though you are no lover—

No love—yet more than love

Alas—how sorrowful—in this mortal world

For such piteous talent—

Through sickness, through dust, through grief

To be scorned and begrudged even unto death—

Alas—how sorrowful—another year's

The sea of words' weathered oar

The high tide shattering upon rocky shores—

The flowers of sorrow have scattered.

Alas—how sorrowful—the mortal world's

When it cast aside even its bonds and neighed,
Autumn came to the endless grass.
There was a heavenly horse with a sorrowful voice—
Alas, how sorrowful—the sound grew distant—
A flower bloomed on the bank of flowing water.

Illuminated by a single flower,

A lone boat drifted by.

IV. Wandering in the Deep Forest, and Other Matters

Wandering in the Deep Forest

The carpenter who carved strength—

The traces of his swung axe ceased.

Spring’s grass and flower carvings—

The chisel’s rhythm would not cease.

In their varied hues, the spring leaves—

Not a single brushstroke of blue remained.

The red camphor tree spread across a thousand branches,

Merely its inherent form—

The hinoki cypress roughed, the cedar straightened.

The five-needled chinquapin tree stood dark,

Branches intertwining—the white oak,

The Ailanthus lay its stem sideways,

Branches and branches, and between them burned a fire—

Within—a tender young maple.

Mountain Spirit:

“Unknown to people—

Who knows the deep forest

Of hidden delights?

Unknown to people—

Who sees beyond spring haze

To its secret depths?”

Delights of
the deep forest—
Who would know?
Unknown to people,

Spring day’s
depths of mist—
Who would know?

Tree Spirit:
Flowers’ purple,
leaves’ green—
Of fresh young grass—
Threads of spread-out grass—
Craftsmanship perfected—
The great loom’s
shuttle’s rhythm—
Come forth.

Mountain Spirit:
That which sprouts—
Trample the grass.
Let that spring forth.

“Drink the water—
adorn flowers with what’s new—
spring’s memories—”

“Is there none?
Tree Spirit—
discard those old robes!
Cast them off—
spring mist—
wrap yourself in it!
From bush warbler’s song—
emerge through its notes—
in deep forests—
sing forth!”

Walking trampled orchid blossoms—

As one walked, bayberries scattered onto sleeves.

Mountain vines clung to sleeves—
Turning over the kudzu's leaf undersides,
Wild strawberries in clematis shade

The beautifully colored fruits fell indeed.

Hills continuing into mountains, every shaded hollow—

very gently and smoothly extending—

In the valley between deep woods—

Scattered wisteria petals released their fragrance—

In the valley flowers bloomed—in the valley they scattered

Unseen by others, they decayed.

From the narrowing, dark gorge—

Partially opened deep mountain trees’—

In spring—the stance of small branches

Lush and spreading bear bamboo grass—

Parting deeply through the tips of leaves

Having come to the valley's far side and looked—
Where do you go, O Cascade?
Voice so lonely—those white threads
Streaming down azure rocks—
Not even for young monkeys' sake
Does your sound ever cease.

Mountain Spirit
Evening cycles through
Travelers'
Heart's yearnings—
Who knows?
Not even a friend—
Mountain river's—
Spring's heart—
Who knows—

Tree Spirit
Through the night I wept—
This sorrow’s
Tears streaming down the pillow—
These tears—
The deep forest’s
Valley shadows

There flow—
Be still.

Mountain Spirit

The deer fall—
Each time—
Longing for their wives—
They return.

Fields and mountains wither—
Each time—
In the spring of a thousand years—

they return.

Tree Spirit

Bury the old fallen leaves
tender
under the shade of young leaves—
Bury them.
Winter’s dreaming paths—
awaken and
to spring’s forest
come forth.

The deep mountain wind now sweeps through.

Spring quietly blows to and fro.

When one hears the flute in the forest,

Lured by the wind's melody

Though I gaze upon them, their white purity remains undiminished—

Clouds' feather-sleeved deep mountain trees—

Clinging to the thousand branches, they rise and part.

Dancing their farewell—what a sight.

Clouds passing through the trees—

When gazed upon even briefly—they leave no trace.

Be led to lofty heights

Countlessly swirling rock shadows’

Wandering among flowers and leaning on rocks

When one hears the sound of flowing water,

The mountain perilously parts stone

Upon the verdant crag carved and shaped

Shattering and falling flying pool's

the surging waves' rapids swift

A spring day ablaze with blossoms

The radiant light shimmered over the water's mist.
Alone, they climbed the moss-covered rock.
With trembling footsteps, they trod firmly.

When one gazed upon the floating clouds,

Beneath resounded the swift pool’s—

The ceaselessly clear rocky waves—

Where did they fall and flow down?

Mountain Spirit

What lingers?

Purple of

Of the deep forest
Spring haze
What lingering longing—
Rock shadows—

Flowing forth,

Izumigawa—

Tree Spirit
Singing in concealment—
The wild mountains’
To a voiceless voice:
"Do you hear it, you?"
Too profuse to contain—
Flower shadows’
Water’s melody—
"Do you perceive?"

Mountain Spirit

Ah... flowing onward...

Yearning endlessly...

Shifting ceaselessly...

Moving restlessly...

Ah... circling eternally...

Returning inevitably...

Laughing whisper-soft...

Sobbing breathlessly...

Tree Spirit
The present sunlight
Spring haze
Mountain Spirit
Now comes the clouded skies

Spring rain...
Ah, ah—the flower’s...
Drunk on dew—
“In the deep forest,
Sing forth!”
Fingers count—each and every time—

Gazing at the shifting clouds—
The white turned yellow—what could it be?
The hues one would apply with a brush—

Before long, they took on a faint tea-stained hue.
The clouds turned crimson.

Ah, twilight—I alone
The forest I had traced through opened up,
A most tranquil lake’s
Azaleas blooming on the shore
When the floating clouds drifted away, their shadow appeared.
The spring sun submerged in water—
That crimson hue dyed
The clouds had turned purple
The waterfowl’s shadow—even crimson—

Spring lake's shore grasses,
deep forests and flowering azaleas—
even my own wandering self—
the deep-purple crimson
twilight shifted in hues.

Song of Burying Mother

Floating clouds exist yet blend indistinct in the vast sky’s
From the moon’s shadow falls a passing shower.
By your grave
Chrysanthemums grow
By your grave
Sakaki grow

Grass blades and dew
Grass blades and dew grow lushly
Is it not unforeseen?

That marker

Someday from sleep—
Awakening—
Someday I shall return—
Mother!
Even the child pulling crimson gauze,
Even the brave men—
All have scattered and fallen,
Even as they are—
Ah, awaken!
Let there be no harm.
Ah, I return—
Let there be no harm.
Spring—flowers bloom—
Flowers scatter and—
By your grave—
Even if they cling—
Summer overflows—
Firefly light—
By your grave—
Even if they soar—

Autumn is lonely—
The autumn rain
By your grave
Even if it pours—

Winter—pure white
Snow and frost
By your grave—
Even if it freezes solid,

The distant sleep’s
Dream-pillow—
Do not fear,
Mother!

Chorus

1. Subtle Fragrance

I believed the spring night's light was scant, yet—
the white plum blossoms must be in full bloom.

The white plum blossoms must be in full bloom.

Elder sister,

Young life—

Since it is precious,

Even in darkness,

Spring’s fragrance—

I would be drunk.

At least tonight—

“Sahohime!
In the shadow of blooming flowers
Sing forth!”

Younger sister.

The sky too was smiling!
The spring night—
The stars too were hidden—
Unseen yet inseparable—
Even brides knew it—
Faintly white—
Scattered and fragrant—
Plum blossoms

“Elder sister!
The light of spring—
In longing—
Shapes concealed.”

Bush warbler!
Even the flowers are white

The spring night’s
darkness I fear—
Let nothing go amiss.
Younger sister.

Circling around the plum
Flowing water’s

Darkness flowed—
O babbling stream!—
Not even dreams beckoned—
Had there been fragrance...
On what night would it have bloomed?
How fragrant it would have been.

Elder sister

On this night of last year,
Our companions’
Pale red plum blossoms—
Dyed robe
Reflected in firelight—

The sake cup—

Love flourishing—

The night had come to pass.

“Younger sister.”

On this night of last year,

Our companions’
Tears are reflected—
Remnant of the world—
Even its figure is sorrowful—alas!

At Kinugawa
Sorrow sank deep—
The night had come to be—
“Elder sister.”

On this night of last year,
Our companions'
Thoughts - spring's own,
The world's dream - was it...?
The world - a floating thing
Manifests in grace

Sheltered from others’ eyes,
The night had come to be.

Sister.

On this night of last year—
our companions'
sleeves of mist
a flower mat—
oh the koto's sound
Takachiho—
mirrored together—
the night had come.

Elder sister—
in my right hand
when I compared
your gentle palm—
shaken all the more
softly—
burning how hotly?
it seemed—

Younger sister—
burning how?

Tonight—
You ask—
How joyous!
Do you not know?
In plum blossom fragrance—

When I was born—

The spring night—

Two: Lotus Flower Boat

The dew that steadily freezes on the lotus leaves—

How the dew has gathered only upon the floating lotus leaves!
Elder sister.
Ah, lotus flowers.
Lotus flowers.
The reflection has appeared.

In the pond water—
In a single boat,
Poling the oar,
Parting the floating leaves—
Row out,
Younger sister.

The breeze—how cool!
Hidden among leaves,
There too they show—
Lotus flowers.

Here too red—

lotus flowers’—

calm water—
pond’s surface—
Elder sister.
Lotus tenderness—
Taking the flower—
The sleeve soaked—

In the pond water

Shrink from even a glance—

In the flower shadows—

Your breasts—

Are revealed.

Younger sister.

Deeply clear—

The pond water—

Brushing against leaves—

An unfamiliar sight—

When summer clouds pass—

Shadows emerged—

From flower to flower

Shadows seemed to cross—

Elder sister.

Singing upon lotus leaves

Boarding the boat

Gathering flowers

summer dream

lotus flower boat
Stopping the oar
What are you gazing at?

That figure

Younger sister.

Calm waves—

In the flower shadows—

Your form—
How it mirrors—
Your form and
summer flowers—
Which holds more beauty—
Which bears more grace—

III Beneath the Grapevine's Shade

Between spring and autumn, my thoughts grew disordered, unable to settle.

With each passing moment, this shifting heart—

Younger sister.

Is this not a delight?

Brilliantly—

Autumn’s setting sun—

When it shines—

Is this not a delight?

The old grapevine’s—

Through its leaves, clouds—

When passing through—

Elder sister.

Is this not lovely?

Purple—

The grapevine’s clusters—

At such times—

Is this not lovely?

Newly sun-dried—

The grapevine’s jeweled clusters—

When reflected—

Younger sister.

The wind lies calm.
The sky clears—
Autumn stands delightful
At dusk—
How long will youth—
These maidens’
Joyful dream’s—

We are the ones.

Elder sister,

Autumn grapevine's

tree shade—

How gently

Deep as it was—

Taking hand in hand,

We trod upon the shade.

Parting with familiarity—

"What shall I do?"

Younger sister.

Is there truly no worth?

Even a chestnut—

I shall not go to the grapes.

A cluster—

Elder sister, give it to me.

A cluster—

There it hangs—

Purple—

Elder sister.

Let me be known,
these lofty branches—
though I shall not let it reach—

That cluster—
In the jeweled shade of leaves—
I touch—
My ornamental comb’s
It has fallen—alas!

IV. Tall Tower

To grieve for one departing—from this night onward,

In distant dream paths, I journey toward Yamato.

Younger sister.

In distant parting—

Unable to endure—

In this tall tower—

I ascend—ah,

Do not grieve—

"My elder sister,

The journey robes—

Make them ready—

Elder sister."

When we speak of parting—
From days of old—
In this world of people—
Though eternal—
Flowing water—
Gazing out—
A dream so bashful—
Tears, I wonder—
Younger sister.
Of the one who longs—
Returns to the origin.
Your lot—
How delightful!
Crossing the winter mountain—
If you go,
What of the light’s—
Ah, my very self!
Elder sister.

Ah, the flower-picking—
In hues...
At the root—I
Ponder this—
Today’s parting—
Someday again—
Until we meet again—
Life—is this it?
Younger sister.
Your radiant—
Your eyes’ color—
Your crimson—
Your crimson lips—
Your green-black—
Your black hair too—

When shall we meet again—

This parting—

Elder sister.

Your gentleness—

Your consolation—

Your joy—

Your singing voice—

Your heart’s—

The tone of your koto—

When shall we meet?

This parting—

Younger sister.

Your destined path—

Mountains and rivers—

To falling tears—

Unseen, unknown—

Sleeve-showers—

On winter days—

I shall send you—

Flowers—if only—

Elder sister.

Enveloped in sleeves—

O lovely

long-cheeked face—

Let me lift up—

Crimson-flowing...

Upon the face

Flowing tears.

I shall wipe

The shuttle's sound

Where now is the one who should hear the shuttle’s sound?

I first spun my heart into thread,
Tears seeping into cotton stripes.
I threw myself against the shattered window.
When I gazed at the darkening sky,
Village crows hurried to their roost.
A single bird broke from the flock and flew.
Longing for traces, it squawked plaintively—

Seagull

Born of waves, to waves return,

The seagull of passion’s sea—

Love’s violent waves rise and roar,

No time remains to weave dreams.

The dark tide roiled,

The sea that flows back—

The whereabouts of the birds remain unseen—
A seagull floating in slumber on the waves.

Shooting star

I stood alone at the gate—
In the loneliness of waiting—
When I gazed at the evening sky—

The clouds having abandoned even their dwelling—
In this world where something is longed for—
A single star trails and falls.
I would frolic with you—

I would frolic with you—summer night’s
Cooling respite beneath young leaves’ shade—
Though fleeting dreams take no shape,
At least tonight, sing!
I turn to cloud and then to rain—
Even if my daytime sorrows never cease—
Count the starlight—
Night’s measure of joy will know no end—
Is this dream or waking—the Milky Way?
The Weaver Princess dozing among stars—
The resonance clears, yet love persists—
Could I ever hear the shuttle’s distant sound?

Daytime Dream

The fragrance of hanatachibana sleeves

The fair-faced maidens

Since I dreamed at midday
The habit of night—awakening to forgetfulness
The enigma of daylight dreams remains thus.
Was it truly so unforgettable?
If I had known it was a dream while still within it—
Had I not awakened—emerging into the world,
The tender grass's tender essence
What, then, is this lingering trace of a dream?
If asked, I would answer—but upon awakening,
No moment passes for my burning tears to dry.
East, West, South, North

If I were to liken a man's heart—
Is it a wind that fiercely bends the grass?
For it was ever thus—wind and nothing more—
Yesterday east, today west.

If I were to liken a woman's heart—
Is it grass buffeted by the wind?
For it was ever thus—grass and nothing more—
Yesterday south, today north.

Reminiscence

Upon the Milky Way’s banks—myriad upon myriad,
Myriad upon myriad gods in grand assembly—
Heaven and earth that gathered—

Who knows the time of beginnings?
That Great Deity’s heavenly clouds—
As if parting eightfold layers to proceed

Wild birds sing on the eastern road—
Ascending Mount Usui

Though the sun shone, yet no shadow existed.

Azuma—oh fleeting one,

I shed burning tears

Takeru’s dream vanished without a trace.

Of Yamato Province’s Takachi

Thunder Mountain upon which an imperial visit was made

In the expanse of heavenly clouds, a hermitage stands built—
Where now does the imperial palanquin’s resonance linger?

When I turn my gaze—ripples!

Shiga's capital fell into ruin—
the poet who dwells on times past—
what can be done with this limpid resentment?
Spring mists veil the high plateau;
when I ascended and gazed, smoke rose.
Even the sight of the people's hearths
vanished without trace into clouds.
Winter showers drench the ninefold

O lamplight of the grand inner palace—

The cold was a night frozen with snow,
the dragon’s robe held no hue.
Of old—the distant ship battles—
even when human blood flowed,
now the empty sea
brimmed without limit,
once was the vast Sekigahara plain.

Though swords contend with dreams,
Now only desolate grass remains

sprawling endlessly, boundless—

I emerged into autumn’s fields.

Deep mountains—I ascended high,

and when I gazed toward the capital,

Ah, ah—these burning tears!

White walls—

Who could know of the flowers nearby—

I climbed the high tower,

my disordered and burning anguish

emerging inscribed upon white walls.

Since they were characters inscribed with saliva,

unnoticed by all, they indeed dried away.

Ah, ah—on the white, white walls

I had sorrow; I had tears.

Four Sleeves

The man’s breath, soft,
When it touches O-Natsu’s hair,
The man’s quick sigh—
When it dashes like hail,
The man’s scorching palm—

When his tears first graze O-Natsu’s hand—

The man’s tears stream forth—

When they fall upon her sleeve—

The man's dark eye's color—
When it reflects in O-Natsu's chest
The man's crimson lips—

When they burn against O-Natsu’s mouth

Though others know not—Ah, love’s

Emanates from their two bodies

Truly, though burning with desire, though we yearn—

Seijurō of ceaseless flame

Heavenly Horse

Preface

Old and young—in their manner of crossing,
Though texts illuminate them—they remain,

A strange marvel lies at Mount Hakone
Twilight at spring’s end

Emerging from the southern gate of heaven

Night after night, they journeyed to northern inns.

The shadow of a blood-crimson star—

Even the man who had grown stubborn,

When he beheld the starlight with his eyes,

The calamity raining down upon flesh—

The celestial sign was doubted.

The bush warbler sang in chorus,

Raising a voice imbued with fragrance.

When one heard the madly trilling notes,

Truly an extraordinary spring song—

Even maidens who knew not spring,

At that bush warbler’s solitary cry,

The pillow paper dampened.

There was a longing for dear ones.

The white lily, untimely,

Blooming in the hedge’s shadow—

The venerable old man of the transient world—

Longing for dreams born of heart's desire
From the voiceless young crane
When it came singing to the eaves' enoki tree
The waking crone of the afterlife—
Atop the flower's pedestal wept in confusion

The hues of stars hung in sky's expanse
Spring turned early—summer flowers!
This was no calamity—
Though omens might be named—

"What drunken song spills from you, spring bird?"
"What prophecy tolls through crane's cry?"
Through divination of those avian voices
Some found cause for joy, others for celebration

In this village of the exalted Holy One,
He had caused a voice to be raised.
The beautiful one who would overthrow worlds
Amidst lush-grown lowly spring grasses—
"Does He deign to emerge?" they clamored though—

Who could know of the new star’s—

It indicated the true north,
The lonely Lake of Reeds,
When reflected in sunken waters,
The nameless lowly eave’s edge.

The sound of the spring night wind ceased.

At the southern edge of the village,
the mare born that night
bore a blue-black coat like flowing indigo-dyed water,
her form one of gentle bearing.
The stallion born in the north
displayed a chestnut coat interwoven with purple—
a dawn-tinted spring haze
that possessed an air wrapped in light.

The starlight too has subsided,

The sound of cranes that lingers in tales—

As the bush warbler sings, petals fall.

Ah, to have been born in this village—

No one even inquires about the horse’s existence.

Stallion.

Ah, be companioned by heavenly clouds!

The stallion flung its emerald mane.

The stallion followed a person,

Descended Hakone’s ridge.

Its chest danced like myriad tides

Surging in that azure abyss.

Its throat drew in spring tides,

Though it drank, it thirsted—such was its air.

Its eyes were the celestial morning star.

Its eyelashes were grass’s pale green.

In moistly glistening eyes,

Even a thousand leagues beyond lay clear,

Illuminating east and entering west,

The sun traversing heaven’s firmament—

The very paths of morning and evening suns

Would reach their extremity in cloud breaks.

Were one to liken its two ears,

To grass leaves rustling

In faintest morning breeze,

Were one to liken hoofbeats,

The purple-gold hue of forged metal
A high and clear clang resounded
When it raged, its long mane
Swinging, swinging its wild locks
Ignited and circled—the blood tide
Flowed and danced like spring seas
In the spouting crimson light
The flame's breath grew violent
Deep and far-reaching—that neigh
The beam where the great deity dwelled
Possessed power to stir dust
Ah—hearing morning birds' song

Neighing in the snow of Fuji's lofty peak,
In the cries of birds crossing the twilight,
Crossing the crags of Kiso Ontake,
The stallion neighed at those azure clouds,
From heaven to heaven—the lightning's flash—
At light's end it had to conceal itself,
Though in the form of a celestial stallion,
Affection both deep and dear,
When seeking to halt its master's course,
Hakone lay distant, and Mii-dera—

The day grew warm, flowers bloomed thickly

Ripples of the blue lake’s

Along the shore’s various grasses it proceeded.

The figure of the Celestial Stallion

Who would think of it? Who would know?

Did they not know—those people in the heavenly clouds—

Though precedent existed for its celestial strides,

The Celestial Stallion descended to the great earth,

Could there be no precedent for its treading upon the great earth?

Behold the profound shadows beneath wisteria leaves.

Emerging into the fragrance of young shore grasses,

A butterfly’s dream drunk on spring flowers

The Celestial Stallion trod upon its shadow

Upon a single crimson spring flower

An unseen god dwelt.

In a single shifting hue of the field

There lay endless celestial sorrow.

Ah, on the path where eagles and hawks flew

High-hanging great sky’s

Touched the infinite strings and resounded,
Played with male and female deities,
Cried in the clouds of sunlit shadows.
The high tide that flowed through the sky—
Even if it drank its fill, it would thirst.
O Celestial Stallion, bearing your form,
Birds came singing to the Sea of Grebes,
Trod beneath citrus blossoms' shade—
Truly gallant was its figure.

Mare.

Born at the edge of the lake of deep blue waves,
The Celestial Mare dwelled in eastern Mutsu's fields.
Dampened by mist, chafed by wind,
The sound too desolate of withered grass—
Lured by pampas plumes,
The mare lamented in wilderness.

Lured by pampas grass plumes,
A mare laments in the wilderness.
Who would hear the swallow’s song,
Hearing a joyful tune
As day grows warm and flowers bloom thickly—
She does not yearn for western skies.
Who would heed autumn-crying wild geese—
Pricking up her ears at their mournful song,
The chill of distant homelands’ heavens—
She does not yearn for drifting clouds’ paths.
Longing to be seen a white antelope,
Transparent yet deeply supple,
The luster in her eyes’ hue—
Is it because I recall my homeland—
Hooves thinning, shoulders gaunt—
Even four legs growing slender—
The dullness of that mane—
Is it because I lament beneath wilderness skies—

Spring—Natori’s young grasses—
with ailing strength she pulls stones;
summer—she crosses Kokubu’s ridge—
the Mare bears salt beyond measure.

Autumn—along Hirose’s riverside,
Beneath autumn foliage’s shade, she was whipped.
Winter—at the field’s edge, the day too faded,

Starves in the mud of sleet-covered roads.

O Crane, you weary of the sky’s clouds,
Intoxicated by the scent of morning haze,
It flies through the spring-lit sky—
Envious is the hue of its wings.
O Lion, hide in the desolate field

Startled by the pathless forest,
Trod lost in dawn’s dew.
How those sharp claws must have yearned!
O Deer amid autumn mountains yearning for your mate—

Treading through the shade of yellow leaves,

Panting toward the valley’s water,

How gentle the color of those eyes!

They treat others coldly and without purpose—

How many years have I thought alone?

Life grew thin, wretchedly—

The thoughts I first conceived now tormented me,

Lamenting in despair under a heavy yoke.

Rather than shedding tears upon flowers,

Alas—in spring fields—
Though I drink dry this gushing spring—
The Celestial Mare’s boundless—
What shall quench my starving throat?
Ah—the flowing water’s—
Willow-shade upon the bank—
Though new grasses thrive there—

What shall I do with this starving throat?

My body becomes dust-entangled weeds,

Though buried in this overgrown abode,

Ah! The earth's green grasses—

They bring no solace.

Heavenly clouds! O heavenly clouds!

This world—this realm of earthly dust—

Shatter the bit! Cast off the world!

Let madness rise—even the yoke—

I pray to gnash through all!

The mare's heart knew sorrow.

They say endless grasses grow,

How I yearn for celestial skies!

They tell of springs that never parch,

How I ache for heaven's fountain!

Having abandoned the cramped stable,

O body meant to race through skies,

Though my heart alone gallops swift,

In sickness—tears alone do I shed.
Born from grass—on grass I weep.
A heavenly horse of graceful form.

I am no different than this fleeting world’s transient things—
How fragile this vanishing life!
Like scattering willow leaves so ephemeral—
my form too resembled theirs.
Like faint snow melting into waves—
my form too resembled theirs.
Were I but an ordinary horse of this world,
in such depths of grief,
would I resent and lament this bodily torment?

I shall raise my voice and neigh.

A tangled, long mane—

At the parting of this world and that world—

The heart alone is tranquil and harmonious.

When the deeply sorrowful voice is heard,

Ah, in the distant breath—

Heavenly sorrow in purple,

Scattered upon wildflowers at field's edge—
Ah, how fleeting were the remnants of this world!

The chicken

A rooster nestling close to flowers—
"Husband! Wife-bird! Rabbit-ear iris!"
Which was the true iris? Hard to discern.
Such fitting demeanor they possessed.

A hen of graceful figure
With a heart ashamed of her form,
In her manner of hiding among flowers—
The husband-bird transformed in dignity—

A valiant and fierce rooster's
comb gleamed with luster,
Yellow beak, legs, and spurs—
Tail a drooping train, long and trailing.

Even were one to ask and see—for whose sake?
O strutting rooster,
As adornments to guard his mate—

How pitifully endearing—those adornments eager to proclaim.

Flowers and birds indeed rendered in painting—

A pair that shared communion with those

In frost’s forlorn sleep at dawn’s first light,

In the rain, the setting sun lingered at twilight.

In the sky, a single bright star’s light

When dark waters stirred,

The rooster, intent on welcoming the day,

Cried out as night’s herald with its call.

The dewy morning broke and advanced.

Who could fathom the sky’s contemplation?

Crimson as if aflame—

Who could trace where the clouds wandered?

The darkness too lay close at hand.

When it raised its voice and crowed,

All people awakened from their long slumber.

Night passed through the day on a pillow of dreams.

The night had fully broken; already,

Now he departed the nest with the hen,
When they went to the field to gather food

Ah, what a strange creature they saw!

The unfamiliar rooster’s cry resounded high
across the morning sky.
What comes parting through the grass?
Does he yearn for his mate? The hen!

Envious was I, my feathers drenched in dew,
When I beheld my shadow cast in the morning sun—
To the rooster, precious radiant white—
It does naught but deceive the clouds.
He appeared powerful, his voice resounding.
Fearing the enemy’s form, perhaps—
Perhaps ashamed of her voice and appearance,
The hen hid among the flowers.

Unable to endure seeing this any longer,
the rooster raised his stature,
the edges of his feathers rough as he dashed and scrambled,
scraped and clawed madly at the earth with his spurs,
the tips of his quill feathers bristling upright,
the gleam in his eyes mingled with blood.

The figures of the two roosters—
This was a terrifying spectacle.
The hen dashed out from the flowers.
The struggle knew no respite, like waves.
In their spurs locked in mutual kicking,
their spurs were suspected to bear flames.
As he kicked, his strike missed the left eye.
The husband rooster, his feathers bloodied,
aiming at the enemy’s right eye,
kicked back as if to shatter even his claws.
Crimson fell, kicked down.
The flower of blood seeped into the earth.
The eyes of both roosters grew wild.
They showed no sign of flinching from each other.
There was a voice; there were tears.
Four wings in frenzied struggle—
the husband rooster slipping through blood—

Ah, resounding was the cry of his collapse!
He let out one long, piercing scream,
the husband rooster collapsing behind—

His feathers stained crimson with blood
The flowers bloomed crimson all around.
Ah, ah—how hot these tears!
A hen whose existence holds no worth—

If only he would cry out once more—

Pitiful was the sight of her lamenting over the corpse.
A sorrow that knew not what it was—
Unbeknownst to her, it had turned to terror,

Distraught, she could only utter sounds—

How she cried, this heartless hen!
In my longing did I raise my voice—
Both form and color once so dear—
Could I have thought them flower's guise?
That I should become sorrow's foe—
While butterflies cling to blossoms—
To think birds share no bond with us—
How terrifying beats that heart!
How cherished flows that sentiment!
When crimson-stained grass meets my gaze—
How fragile proves a bird's brief life!
When love burns fiercer than wild flames—
How joyful must the enemy's heart swell!
Behold the shifting vault of heaven—

The radiant sun grew faint behind clouds.
When the wind blew, bereft of color were the flowers.
The fields had turned desolate.
The husband rooster of sorrowful love—
His form grew ever colder.
A single fragment I deemed my solace—
What would become of me, the hen?
A mother and child harboring fear...

As if clinging to that enemy,
Without knowing why, they pressed their bodies against—
How pitiful the hen’s heart!
What a heartrending sight to behold!

The once-delightful flowers had scattered,
The sky's hue darkened; a single-hued feather—
Fields beneath sorrow-laden clouds
Birds that would never return alive—ah
Husband? Hen? Japanese iris.

Trod through irises—whichever they were—

Two chickens returned across the field's edge.

At Matsushima Zuigan-ji, strolled among grapes.

Observed the squirrel wood carving.

The boat route too distant—Zuigan-ji Temple.

Winter wanderings, devoid of purpose.

Leaned against the old door.

The relief carving by Hida’s master craftsman—

When one came to the shade of the grapevine and looked
On a winter day at Bodai Temple
The sword grieved; the chisel mourned.
Carved thin grape leaves,
Squirrel concealed within shadows—
Even if it hid its form,
The chisel’s scent could not be concealed

The rocky-shore temple resonated with the tide.
Even as this day ended with its bell.
When one lingered as dusk deepened.
How I longed for you—Jinzaburō!