Pathway to Japanese Literature

Dream Within a Dream

Ah, how weak the human heart—

Ah, how fierce the passion of love—

Song of the Morning Mist

Spill not, oh flowers of fleeting beauty,
You who vanish alongside those scattering—
Lovely though you are, how many days can endure?
The glory I deemed full bloom has already withered.

Spring Horse

Part One: Departure

The window shut fast by the north wind—
Companions being books and hearth fire,
Alongside icicles beneath eaves, the heart freezes
Contemplating and studying snow daruma—
Until today plum and cherry blossoms—
Plum and cherry blossoms fall silent under frost’s affliction

Frost pillars—yesterday’s melt—remain unchanged
A mild morning wind—today’s dawn—
The window of books opens to bush warblers’ song
When one leans out—plum blossoms’ fragrance!
In south or north no flowers are seen—

In which grove does the wind lodge?
When one listens intently for a time—the bush warbler's song—

"The thing called spring has not yet arrived."

× × × × × × × ×

Close your books; lay down your brush—what force compels this?

To what realm does it summon me?

The spirit long hardened by winter now congeals,

I lacked the strength to draw forth my staff.

[Text missing]

Strike the whip—let me hasten.

O direction where flowers bloom—my path leads,

How I long for last evening’s lingering dream-traces.

Part Two: In the Mist

The path I'd traveled ended at Hosokawa,

The path vanished into bewildering mist.

When the spring horse neighed in a lone, piercing cry,

My very self would soon dissolve into mist—
Choked by love's grip, I bowed my head—
Where now lingered those beckoning blossoms?
The floral specter haunting even dreams' recesses—

I came seeking yet found no trace—
In the mountain depths were no dwellings， no voices—
In the vast wilderness， I alone；
Tears to lament—the sound of water，
Let me pour tears toward where flowers bloom．
I alighted to let it drink clear water from the horse’s back，
I stroked its back while giving another flick of the whip，

Though I urged myself onward, which way should I point this aimless bow?

With thoughts in disarray, I gazed at the treetops,

Clamorous were the birds' cries.

When one rode into the mist's lingering depths,

A low hill rose with jagged rocks,

Withered branches snapped by last year's storm

Hung broken from their trunks;

The desolation chilled me—who moves there? Who?

They lied when they declared spring's arrival.

I turned the horse back toward the lower path through this forest here—
When I hurried down through spring rain
Shaking moisture from my sagging feet—
The faint flap of wings
Had scarcely vanished yonder when
A pheasant’s cry pierced through.

Spring has come.

Today，for the first time，I felt spring’s warmth—
No wind—the sunlight brighter than usual，
earthworm
The laces of the pilgrimage sandals loosened.
The sorrowful love clinging to the breast，
Though worn out by brooding，does not diminish.
When I looked—there，in a place I had never imagined—
An unfamiliar flower garden.

[It] had been made by people's humble hands, transformed into something else entirely—a hundred varieties of wildflowers how splendidly they bloomed, each according to their own will.

At the roots of the flowers—something.
Something wriggled there.
When he looked down,
It was an earthworm.

Earthworm’s Song

During this summer pilgrimage journeying about, one morning I suddenly came upon a place where intriguing wildflowers bloomed.
When I was gazing at the flowers with undivided attention, something entered my vision—this being not another aesthete but an earthworm. Finding this phenomenon curious, I recorded it.

The laces of the straw sandals had loosened,

Still early in the morning, the sun not yet high,

With last night’s dream still lingering unbroken,

How restless was my heart—and yet, upon this wandering monk’s

Body remained shameful traces of a dream.

Muttering to himself, he finished tying the laces and stood up,

Were he to walk now—how strange,

The wildflowers now in full bloom detained me—
My soul plunged first into them—I would forget all things—
Were this flower here alone, I would burn to death.
Who crawls there beneath my flowers—
No answer came—it crawled about—
"Do you mean to steal my flowers—you rogue—"
Unthinkingly he raised his fist.

As he was about to strike, “Stay your hand!

“I have long dwelled underground,

knowing nothing of flowers’ essence;

Since departing my home this morning,

illuminated by the morning sun’s heat,

now I seek only a home to return to.

“I have been summoned since birth,

with no means to establish a home anywhere.

The house departed at dawn is not the house returned at dusk—

under flowers or under thorns alike,

I do not choose where to dwell.”

“One is born without a nose,”
“As for what people call greed—I know nothing of it,
Where people cast their refuse,
I sip the dew of paradise—
Beyond this point lies no realm of joy.”

“I know not of yesterday’s existence,
I do not dispute tomorrow’s existence—
Night is when things are most joyful,
Borrowing lodging among grass roots—
‘I sing, though I know not what song is.’”

Stay, stay, earthworm—cease your exposition;
Behold—there lies an enemy near you;

The wise one’s renown stood high in the world.

“Come forth, ants; draw near,”

“Take heed; make haste to your dwelling.”

“You there—I see no enemies,

“However, due to the unbearable heat,

"Well then, I shall return to my home,

"There no enemies would come; peacefully,

'I shall greedily take another nap.'

Before this matter had concluded,
"

The formidable enemies had already climbed upon its back,

Here at this decisive moment it leapt forth,

Ferocity unleashed—ah, splendid!

The enemies were dashed against the earth.

Ah, how absurd these petty fighters,
Now with spirits fortified, they pressed on;

Beneath the encircling flowers,
Alas, everywhere the earth lies unyielding,

What am I to do when there exists no hole to enter.
Once more before enemies could arrive,
In such anxious haste—is this not the way;
Wandering yonder, bewildered here,

It goes forth only to return, returns only to go forth,

There was still no lodging to return to.

Eventually, the wounds settled.

The enemies latched on once more;

When it shook its body and leapt in a dance,

Brittlely flung off once more,

It turned toward this direction and retreated.

Two, three, four—before long, the number of enemies

Had gradually increased in number,

This side still held no shelter,

The enemy’s ranks lay unbroken and spread out.

"This time for sure," rallied the warriors with vigor.

Fatigued perhaps, it came to a halt,

It pondered where to go from here;

The enemies, seizing this moment, charged forth—

As they swarmed closer—alas, it failed to perceive—

Suddenly, two or three were on its back.

It tried to shake them off and proceed;

Yet another wave of fresh warriors came surging;

Whenever it planted its feet to fight,

The assailants gathered like a cloud of mist,
No matter how many times it jumped, it couldn't shake them off.

As the morning sun rose higher,

The dryness of the earth intensified,
No dew to moisten its throat,
Alas, for this repelling body—
The heat grew ever more unbearable.
The pain of wounds it had sustained
Increased its torment with each struggle.
Now there was no way to shake them off.
Do as you will; let them come.
Little soldiers, swarm upon my back!
Seizing their chance, the enemies charged up,
Suddenly covering its back completely;
In agony, it tried to beg forgiveness but—
What could this voiceless body do,

Having no way to act, it collapsed as it was.

Startled and dismayed, they reached out a hand—

With a snap, hundreds of ants scattered—
Alas, had it already met its end?

Captivated by the tale heard earlier,
they could not save it; it had died.

They carefully dug up the earth,

They buried it with "Return to dust."

Bear no grudge—all that lives and breathes—
Which among us shall not return to dust?
Neither high nor low shall escape this fate.
When rising while feigning blindness to this sorrow,
The flowers' hues and scents grow yet more vivid;
You too must someday scatter—
When you scatter, remember: in this world
Lives there any breath that shall not cease?

A lone star.

Sleeping then waking, waking then sleeping—the autumn bed,

Tying only to vanish, vanishing only to tie—traces of dreams.

As the oil ran out, the lamplight rapidly faded into darkness,

Quite mysterious were these thoughts in the breast that refused to wane.

Though I knew it bore no guilt, this hateful pillow—

Though I cast it aside and rose to my knees,

There was no way to extinguish these thoughts tangled like a thousand hemp threads.
I replayed the dream I had just beheld,
I divined the path ahead where waves towered high,

Where could the harbor of this love I’ve begun to wander through be?

He rose and opened the window—the outside,

The clouds’ feet hurried back and forth, inviting a tempest,

The boundary between heaven and earth blurred into indistinct blackness—how utterly terrifying.

For a moment stunned, he gazed out—
From a gap in the thinning clouds overhead,
A single star with a soulful presence revealed itself.
In an instant, his thoughts cleared and gloom scattered away.
People slept; the world lay quiet in midnight's depth—
"You who resonate are indeed my yearning heart's very form."
Lone Butterfly in Flight

The heartless butterfly appeared so forlorn.
Before one knew it, summer too had deepened into evening shadows—its form floated lightly over the garden’s cool surface stirred by leaf-bearing winds.
A black ground mottled with silver-white, its twin lobes surrendered to the wind as it turned its questing gaze toward where flowers might bloom.

It was but yesterday that it wandered out into the spring fields, amid rapeseed flowers reflecting the morning sun—neither buoyant nor truly lost—until today when the vast fields narrowed. When one reflects upon it, until today had passed so mysteriously. While spring had passed unnoticed and summer too arrived, how was one to manage tomorrow’s lodging?

This was merely the observer’s groundless fear; the butterfly simply flitted about seeking flowers. No sooner did one think it headed west than it turned east; no sooner did it fly east than it danced back west. Scavenging through the rear garden and circling once around the front pond. The butterfly did not rest upon the bush clover leaves awaiting autumn; at this morning’s poignant morning glories it flapped its wings twice, thrice, then flew off once more to dance through the cosmos.

Is there anyone in the universe who does not wander?
Tomorrow’s rain or evening’s wind—is there any that would not trouble the heart?
O evening butterfly dancing forlornly—is solitude yours alone?
I too wander lonely and bewildered through this summer’s twilight scenery.

The autumn wind would dry the tree leaves tomorrow.
When frost lies spread equally over field and village, and the life of grass too vanishes completely, your dwelling too shall cease to be.
Gathering flowers in this fleeting moment—ah, how pitifully transient is this world’s dream.
Those who amass gold, those in authority, even jade-visaged beauties—none shall be exempt from this dream. Ah, how foolish!

Snow, fall!

Being a work composed on a sickbed, both its rhythm and thoughts are more disordered than usual in many places.
I humbly beseech the readers' forbearance.

○ That emaciated and wasted form,

Withered and dried-up that form,

What malady did he suffer to have wasted away so,

What did he worry over that his left side had wasted away.

○How repulsive! Ah, that form,

How pitiful! Ah, that form,

Where? Who? What manner of person?

Where was this village? At what land’s end?

○Was there no parent? No child?

Was there no wife? No sister?

Ah, this person did not speak,

Not speaking would make one a mute.

○If he had a tongue that wasn’t mute,
How could he not tell of his journeys time and again?

From which village did he wander out,

To what village did he go?

～～～～～～～～～～～
○ Whence does one wander, and to where?
Ah, the pathos of those who seek!

To think there was a home, to believe there was a village—
Ah, the foolishness of those who sought to fix things!

○To wander through clarity that does not wander—
The absurdity of those who strayed.

Since he had neither parents nor children, wife nor sister,
In the dark floating world existed no connection.

○Though you laughed, "How repulsive!"

Though you take pity, "How pitiful!"

I am master of form,

Form is my guest.

○This fleeting world as a borrowed thing—
To cling to form and figure—

Do you not know, alas, people of the floating world,
If you have compassion, leave that place.

～～～～～～～～～～～

“This is a rare beggar!”

Though not mute—this know-it-all,

The beggar came in his beggarly form.

Ah, how pitiful—the beggar’s know-it-all face.

“This one and that one argued,

They brought offerings and gathered,

‘Leave without begging for anything,’”

A know-it-all beggar with a detestable speaking face.

“Though he exists without village or home,

Those with villages and homes who revile—”

Ah, those who understand foolish hearts!

The beggar’s know-it-all nature was pitiful.

Abandoned utterly by both world and people,
Do they know—or know they not—this self that ought to feel shame?
We who are denounced as people of the floating world—
Thou art no friend; let us depart.

～～～～～～～～～～～

Ah, how bothersome these village children are!
In futile matters—alas—a single night spent,
They defied the moon's intent,
Ah, the beauty of the sky that met their eyes!

○Come now, rise up—toward yonder,

On the grassland atop the hill,
their lodging for the night was a makeshift mat,
and they would sleep joyfully beneath the moon.

When they tried to stand, their legs weakened,
What were they to do? Their joints had loosened.
Even the clear water flowing there
now coursed through bodies no longer theirs.

They had thought to reach that mountain—
this wish too stood revealed as error.
The moon that had gone west and ever west
had drawn near the mountain ridge.

～～～～～～～～～～～

○They who traversed the dreams of old,

In the phantasm of the realm of splendor,

Were they to depict this form and features,

This self too would surely burst into raucous laughter.

○Within the mirror of the present heart,

When the splendor of old is reflected,

The ugliness of that form and features—

I laugh and pity myself.

○To deem the past unskillful now comes too late,

To call this present moment awakened proves equally futile.

Dreams and mirrors, heaven and earth—

What shall I do with my current self?

○Having exhausted even the act of begging,

Months had passed without eating,
He found joy solely in forgetting all things,
Upon his grass pillow, he entered sleep from which he would not wake again.

Infant

The infant slept deeply,
Saw a dream beyond the floating world,
The mother’s lap—a paradise’s—
The infant likely considered it a jeweled dais.
The vast world—and its people—
In their hearts lay unbearable confinement.
Sleep now forevermore,
On this flawless expanse of lap.

Heike Crab

My friend Mr. Sumiya, having journeyed west and obtained a single Heike crab for me, composed a poem to present it with.

To the gods,

Abandoned while sinking to the sea's depths,

How profoundly you sank—this inevitability.

The ways of the world—
Small carts revolving and revolving,
Without leaving traces of transition,
I alone,

Through all ages this form had persisted,

This form must have left behind an unending grudge.

The hidden dwelling—

Even when sought in the tidal path's depths,

There came no moment when the heart found peace.

White banners,

Of those not Genji—the sea folk—

For what malice did they come pursuing?

Tranquil,

Though the moon shone upon the waves,

These water's depths remained eternal darkness.

Ah, the pathos—

The head's horns had grown sharper,

The forehead's wrinkles deepened evermore.

Twin pincers,

Though pincers existed, this grudge—

There had been no means to sever it.

It was a dream,

Though I had awakened from past glories,

When will this present reality awaken?

Skull Dance

One day, inspired by a magic lantern show I saw at the Geological Society, I formulated an idea.

Born in the makeshift abode of dozing,

In the darkness through which years had passed,
Even the weight of the stone that stood by the bedside
I would not count among things of consequence.
What mattered if there were no moon or flower -
This tranquility within the tomb.
Should I not brush away droplets falling on my sleeve,
This body too would melt into dew.
This decaying form must remain exactly as it stands -
"The scattered dust of this transient world."

How rare! Tonight the pine lute sounds,
The distant water's murmur holds its charm.
In midnight's profoundly deepening hour,

The crow's cawing—ah, how suspicious!

Whatever may come, the sight of my homeland—

Should I visit—what would I find?—my heart quivers.

The shallowness of this excavated hole—ah, how fortunate!

The stone set upon the grave felt light.

Come now, let me see how the world's countenance has changed,

I shall tread through the dwarf bamboo and press onward.

Is the world autumn's crimson leaves or spring blossoms,

"In a dream where neither is questioned."

Darkness, O darkness! Truly spring and autumn—

A world of darkness where even irises lose distinction!

In a sky without moon or lingering stars,

How rare to see clouds moving—

Ivy and creepers clinging to a sky-piercing tree,

Ivy and creepers hang down with a resentful air.

The thickly growing mugwort plants entwine with one another,

They allow the poisonous serpent to dwell.

I recall—this very place was once a thicket,

Without bidding farewell, this body of mine,

Helplessly becoming a chain of falling tree leaves,

"had helplessly hastened on the journey to the realm of death."

How dreadful! The lightning kicked through the clouds—

In the sky, demons and gods must have gathered.

The approaching reverberation grew dreadful—the roaring thunder's

At what did it rage and clamor?

Did the roaring thunder rage in loathing of the skull?

Even as a skull—how they mocked with reverence!

Though lamentable to speak of what once was,

Even this skull was once
the very Ima Komachi who troubled hundreds of men—
The fate of this body once sung of—ah!
More than this self being forgotten—the forgetting hearts of people,
"Is yesterday’s friend no more?"
If there be someone, let them draw near—let them come—

"If there be one who remembers times past."

"O spirits said to fill heaven and earth—draw near,"

"I shall show them—I shall dance and show them."

"Dance, skull! How rare—the skull’s dance,"

"Forgetting shall not erase Flower Komachi."

"Leaps high and bounds lightly—the visage of,"

"She concluded the feather robe dance."

The stream gulped as if to quench its thirst—the water's surface
How wretched the reflected figure!
What fluttered down was not dew on leaf tips—
"A single droplet from the flower's skull."
"Resentful indeed—that none should witness this follows reason,"

The dance of today that replaced yesterday's.

The traces of a dream where tribute had formed mountains,

I awakened ashamed before the dew.

This body alone—not being autumn—at the field's edge,

What flower does not eventually scatter?

How detestable—these transient nodes upon the kuretake bamboo,

The world that led others astray is my own bewilderment.
What resentment could this forgotten self hold? Having realized—
In the coming and going of clouds, the mind hastens.

Wait a moment, O autumn wind—this fleshless body—
Before the moon emerges, come now—I shall return.

Approached Kotō-an from afar.

He thought, "May a single flower bloom,"—

The wishing heart was for you.

He entreated, "Thin clouds—do not veil the moon—"

The praying heart was for you.

Deep within Yoshino's mountains,
he imparted words to ten thousand flowers,
awaiting you while making them bloom.

Lute Playing

Whether sorrow or joy—
the infant unaware of the floating world—
for what reason did it gaze so intently at the movement of the lute’s hands—
at their moving form—must it be?

At what did the infant smile—
The infant gazed at the one who played the lute.
What could the infant have whispered,
Listening so intently to the lute's tones?
Even those unaware of the floating world
Heard a voice from beyond the floating world.

Here, the voice that came bearing sound,
Without even asking from where.
Moonlight filled the broken window,
The buried ember grew faint,
That night, for the infant,
He would elucidate the lute's truth through till dawn.

Lute Playing and the Infant

At what does the infant smile—

The infant gazes at one who plays the lute.

What does the infant find joy in—

The infant listens attentively to the lute's tone.

Even those unaware of the floating world

Hear a voice from beyond its bounds.

Here where sound-bearing voice arrives,

They ask not from whence it came.

Moonlight fills the broken window,

The buried ember grew faint.
Tonight—this single night—for the infant,
he would elucidate the lute’s truth.

Fireflies

The evening's radiance faded,

First, in the grassy shade where dusk approached,
Though they faintly dotted the shadows,
Yet there remained a scene that brought shame to those who beheld it.

Chasing winged insects along Hosokawa’s
Young sweetfish darted through rapids
When stillness settled, the firefly lights—
They glided low along the water's edge

A life born from decaying grass—
Illuminated by moonlight
Without returning to their origin
They suddenly vanished into the sky

Fireflies

The evening's radiance faded,
First, in the grassy shade where dusk approached,
Though they faintly dotted the shadows,
Yet there remained a scene that made one ashamed of oneself.

Chasing winged insects along Hosokawa’s,
Young sweetfish darted through its rapids,

When stillness settled, the firefly lights—
They glided low along the water's edge.
A life born from decaying grass,
Alas, illuminated by the moon,
Without returning to the original grass,
They suddenly vanished into the sky.

Butterfly's Path

Fluttering, its destination was questioned,
How glad was the heart's depth!
Across autumn fields, vaguely,
The butterfly itself wandered lost in search.
Going and returning to the same pass,

Crossing over the path it had once crossed,

This self that danced through flowered fields and mountains—

The flowerless fields too were its original dwelling.

There was neither front nor back,

Outside "fate" there existed no "self".

Fluttering lightly away—

The intermediate space between dream and reality.

Sleeping Butterfly

In the autumn wind that began to rise this morning,

"The hues of Nature had transformed."

In the high treetops, the cicada's voice grew faint,

In the lush grass, the insects' song was sorrowful.

In the grove,

Even the bush warbler's voice turned plaintive,

In the field,

The myriad flowers too held sorrow.

Ah, alas, a single butterfly,

Sleeping upon a tattered flower.

Already it had come, already it had come—autumn,

All things had turned to autumn.

The ants, startled, searched for holes,
The snake nodded and entered its den.
The rice cultivator harvested rice under the morning stars,

The mountain woodcutter,
Under the moon he whistled, preparing for winter.
O butterfly, only you now, O butterfly,

What of sleeping upon a tattered flower?
Even a tattered flower became shelter when lodged in—
the bed fate had prepared.
At spring's beginning it wandered out,
until this autumn day, drunk ever drunk:
in morning light
grew weary of dew on countless flowers,
in evening shade
had passed through dreamless dreams beyond number.
Remaining just so in 'Desolation'—
would that it perish altogether with the flowers.

The Parting of Twin Butterflies

On a single branch, twin butterflies,
They folded their wings and rested.
Drooping under the heavy burden of dew,
The grass sank into contemplation.
Tormented by autumn's cruelty,
The flowers faded from sorrow.
Two butterflies, without exchanging a word,
They rose in unison and danced away.
When they looked back, the field lay desolate,

When they faced forward, the wind was cold.

Though the spring that had passed was but a dream,

Where now wandered their path?

Two butterflies sharing the same grief,

Their four wings appeared weighed down.

Even flying together as a pair, they grew cold throughout—

How fearsome was autumn’s sword!

The male and female drifted together,

Returning desolately to where they had come.

The original branch became temporary shelter,

Where the two butterflies paused to rest.

At the sound of the evening bell resonating,

Startled, the two butterflies rose.

This time they parted—west and east,

They departed while glancing back.

The Life of Dew

"Wait, wait—take that hand back where it belongs.
Refrain from such cruelty.
Should even the tip of those fingers graze this dew, it would instantly fall and vanish."

Blown, they scatter—'tis in scattering that flowers find life—or so proclaim those self-styled sages.
What becomes of this dew?
Neither blooming nor fading.
Formed at dusk, gone by dawn.

A single night at the tips of grass blades.
Even when relying on transient shelter.
Well then—not even one beautiful dream to behold.
Winds scoured wild through open fields, soughing.
What joy could dwell in this endless blowing?

What had it been before coalescing?
What would become after dissolving?
The span between last dusk and this dawn too—
Had it grown into sorrow's seed?
To have pleaded "Wait" proved misguided.
Now swiftly—deign to efface it.