Pathway to Japanese Literature

Whether from the warming weather, the effects of convalescence, or sufficient nutritional intake—though my emaciation remained unchanged—these past few days I perceived a slight recovery in my overall physical strength. I no longer used a cane for walking indoors, nor did I feel significant fatigue in my legs when ascending or descending stairs. With the supplementary “Poem Diary” having run out of blank pages, I began writing my verses in a new notebook from that day onward, adopting the fresh title “Floating Clouds on the Pillow.”

Day by day, green plums hidden among leaves grew more visible, while signs of my illness beginning to abate started to show.

When I looked at this geography of America written by another, I felt such longing to go and dwell there.

I shall seek out and fix as my death-place / A village near Tenryū Gorge where pure waters flow (This vision came when Mr. Hara urged me to evacuate to Yamamoto Village - its clear springs lying two or three ri from Iida City).

The above concludes May 13th.

Though wasting away, yet since I seem to continue living...

Even I myself am astonished that this emaciated body still lives on; there remains a path to life.

That I remain alive despite being so weakened—is this not the wonder of what we call life? May 14th

After many days had passed since my last haircut, I went to have it trimmed and composed this poem upon returning home.

I visited the barber and came back; when I lay down afterward, my fever rose by evening.

Though my pulse raced and fever burned, I refused to surrender—crawling from bed to voice my defiance.

What sorcery was this—that the stomach and intestines which tormented me in youth now grew ever healthier past sixty?

Even now, when bush mosquitoes emerged to sting faces, I lay there with a hot water bottle pressed close. The above concludes May 14th.

I—who by nature had always preferred seclusion and sorely lacked any inclination for travel—now at sixty-seven years of age, having lain bedridden since January until this approach of half a year—had come to think my parting from this world could not be far off; yet this heart yearning to embark on journeys gradually sprouted within me until I found it nearly impossible to restrain.

Having resigned myself to die anywhere, I would set out on a journey with no determined end.

If at last I could abandon my cane, I would set out on a journey—to see mountains and see seas.

Now that I've lost both money and strength, this heart yearning to wander on journeys springs forth.

May 19th

Lying prostrate on my sickbed all day with departing spring, I dreamt of journeying a thousand miles through windswept moonscapes. May 21st

I entrust life and death to nature.

There was a time when my weakening condition progressed daily, and I feared that if this trend continued, recovery might soon become impossible.
At that time, I secretly thought: since my body held no hope of recovery, and with food shortages now at their extreme—for every day I ate more, I reduced others’ rations by another day, and neither side gained anything—there was nothing for it but to resolve to fast unto death. Yet before doing so, I wished to invite my wife and children for one final farewell meal, where I might eat my fill of sweet bean soup as a last memory of this life, using that occasion to prepare myself to meet death.
While thus conflicted in thought and not yet reaching a decision, I finally came to compose this short poem.

At fifty-nine,
Due to senility, he descended the mountain.
At sixty-nine,
His debility grew ever more severe,
leading him to the small hut in the backyard of Kimura Motouemon’s house.

Venerable Ryōkan after relocating
had entrusted life and death entirely to nature
and finally reached seventy-three.
Upon learning how he had managed this feat,
he quietly found peace of mind.

This year I am sixty-eight.
My physical decline had suddenly worsened,
Already I could no longer endure daily affairs.

Though I have become a body that only burdens others,
So be it.
May I too follow in the footsteps of the Venerable One.

Entrusting life and death to nature,

If I am to surpass it, I shall cross the hill of seventy years.

May 21st Fair Copy

The half-finished work I had requested last autumn through Mr. Kaneko to have mounted still remained incomplete; the promise to finish by year’s end had proven empty, and then the insistence on completing it by April’s end turned out to be another falsehood.
Thinking it was likely due to their reluctance to pay the cost, I communicated this reasoning to Mr. Kaneko; but later realizing I had made excessive demands, I deeply regretted it.
Then I sent two poems.

How shameful to have made all these selfish demands—please forgive this dying, ailing body.

If only there were a hole—would that I could crawl into it! Ashamed am I of this body that has committed so many errors. May 22nd.

Sickbed Miscellaneous Poems

I shall not lament—
Though tomorrow’s fate of this nation remains unknown,
What becomes of this aged body matters not.

In lofty mansions, layering brocade quilts upon quilts,
There must be those who still fret over what’s to come.

This body that spends half each day lying prostrate—
Truly, dreaming has become my sustenance. May 21st.

The plum fruits beyond my window have grown somewhat;
In them I find proof that life persists steadfast.

Were I to regain a form capable of writing once more,
How boundless would be my joy!

As my ebbing vigor halts its decline,
I plant my feet firm and feel strength seeping back. May 23rd.

The sunlight too harsh, I step onto the veranda and watch the clouds drift across the sky, tracing their journey’s end.

Mid-May—unable to shed midwinter robes—I crane my neck awaiting summer’s arrival.

If there were a land where cherished things exist in abundance, I would go and dwell there—so I think these days.

Sitting on the shore where white waves break, how I long to bask in the blazing sun. May 24th.

Summer drew near.

During winter’s harsh cold now past, I had felt hardship beyond compare.
Having survived by fortune’s grace and now standing at summer’s threshold, I detected faint signs of recovering health—body and spirit stretching outward with no small measure of joy swelling within me.

Summer—be my homeland!

The twenty chill-laden days of clouded skies

at last cleared into early summer’s light

as sunlight grew steadily stronger—

He discarded his heavy wadded robe

and cast off his thick woolen shirt—

shedding at last his emaciated frame’s burdens—

He stretched his hunched neck.
When he stretched his limbs,
like a ship gazing at the port from afar—

Feeling as though his homeland had appeared before him, his spirit grew emboldened.

A frost-white winter morning,

On a winter night when snow falls softly and piles up,

The sky clouded over, and the sun was not visible.

A cold wind blew fiercely.

The blood in the hands and feet froze,

the bones too were on the verge of freezing,

Enduring winter days,

the ailing body alone,

Pillowed on grass, the day darkens; lying in the fields.

It was as though he suffered the hardships of a journey in a foreign land.

Removing my tabi socks,

The tatami mats I tread with bare feet—
they are indeed the mark of my homeland.
Rising at dawn and inhaling the air,
even this dying body revives.

Look outside the window,

The plum fruits grow day by day under the sun.

Summer too had at last drawn near.

Like a ship gazing longingly at the port from afar

My homeland had drawn near.

Composed on May 26th

Upon reading a report that Mr. Kobayashi, while surrounded by raging flames, fought valiantly and barely managed to rescue the Museum of Industrial History under his charge from the fire.

Unyielding to the raging flames, a valiant warrior stood firm and protected the museum to the end.

You, unburned by raging flames, live on; you live on still—how gladdening this is. June 3rd.

*Miscellaneous Poems from a Sickbed*

Though I long to see mountains and rivers once more, the strength to seek them has vanished.

Why have I become so weakened? Even reading letters feels burdensome. May 30th.

Now already, as evening deepens and summer arrives with its tormenting mosquitoes, my illness remains unhealed.

Thinking I would never return from this journey, yet here I am—alas, how eight years have passed!

To live a little longer and see the world’s state—they say the advancing years won’t show. June 14th.

Though I long to live a while longer, the tide of years is hard to withstand.

My life, bundled like a household offering, returns—alas, alas—have eight long years already slipped by?

Today I had thought to take up my brush when noon arrived—
but before noon came,
a fever arose.

How touching it was—the grandchild receiving soybean meal powder
as a snack and rejoicing.

Laying down this body that even the heart cannot control,
I play in dreams across ten thousand miles of sky.

June 15th

Even as I sink to the bottom of a well and dwell there, I pray to live on.

Rejoicing in the poems received from you alone, today I recited them through daylight’s span. (To Dr. Ishida)

If heaven would but permit me, I’d eat piping-hot steamed buns and die.

Though summer—my last hope—has come at last, my pain refuses healing’s grasp.

As one departing on a journey with azusa bow never to return, I’ve fallen to valley depths where I stroke my bones.

In this strengthless flesh with no way to climb, I plunged to valley depths and writhed alone—July 4th.

Now already having brought all things to completion, I think only of dying pure. July 5th.

Now I merely lie all day without even dreaming, heart tranquil as I wait for death's day.

Unable to climb up, having fallen to the valley’s depths—yet still I lived in those depths.

As I lay in the valley’s depths pondering how many days must have passed—even today I ate on.

Though my nature was to crave sudden change, I opposed it and seemed to be dying very gradually.

The wish I had hoped for—to go out beyond the capital gates once more—now seemed in vain.

July 6th

**Dreams**

When I heard that Mr. Hatada would soon move to Kyoto—a hope that too came to naught—and wove manifold dreams relying on the various kindnesses I had heard of from him, they all vanished like true dreams.

Alas, all dreams have become mere dreams; until the day this fighting ends, I cannot meet you.

The castle in the air crumbled suddenly to dust; my body clings to a lone boat adrift on waves stretching ten thousand ri.

Alas, dreams—all dreams—have vanished like dreams; nursing my illness, I lie alone.

My self, so full of dreams, has grown accustomed to their shattering; thus I feel no sorrow.

Very well—even if my dreams are shattered, I shall not grieve; for having many dreams is my very nature.

Undaunted by shattered dreams, I lose myself in new ones and chase after dreams once more.

July 4th–10th

the short poem that reads, “I entrust life and death to nature”

In the form of a Chinese-style poem (Final Version)

Some turmoil—some turmoil

Sixty-seven years—sixty-seven years.

Rise and fall, gain and loss—

Entrusting myself to the public’s pitying gaze—to the public’s pitying gaze I entrust myself.

Bowing unashamed before the earth—bowing unashamed before the earth.

Looking up unashamed at heaven—looking up unashamed at heaven.

A bedridden state grown long—having reached a prolonged bedridden state,

My spirit grows gradually calm—gradually calm it grows.

Already transcended life and death—already transcended life and death.

Neither mooring the boat—nor tying the boat.

To Dr. Taketa

Having received what was claimed to be an inkstone made from old tiles of Weiyang Palace.

Daily stroking the old inkstone made from tiles of the East Pavilion of Weiyang Palace that I received.

Taking out the treasured old Chinese ink I had stored away, I grind it on the Weiyang tile inkstone and find pleasure.

Even if all my household possessions burn away, let only this inkstone remain behind as my memento.

On the day I burn to death and my corpse becomes unrecognizable, do bury this inkstone in my grave. July 13th.

To Dr. Ishida

Though I think to return once more to my former self, spilled water does not return to the basin.

You command me to live a hundred years, yet I cannot even cross the hill of seventy.

A mere husk of bone and skin—yet within this body still lurks a heart of greed.

While clinging to the thought that surviving must hold some purpose, I greedily eat to keep living.

The desire for sensual pleasures had already ceased, but the appetite for food alone remained hard to control.

You are not the old man who forgets the world and is forgotten by it—how could I turn to regard you?

Having been bestowed with honorable poems far exceeding my worth, I found myself rejoicing even as I burned with shame.

Believing the words of others that were hard to believe, I have lived these sixty-seven years.

July 14th

The lamp flickers toward extinction yet refuses to die out—on what evening will its final limit come?

The aged one's poem stands truly exquisite; July 26th—as days when I can only sink into deep contemplation grow ever more numerous.

I lodged five nights at Sōkaku Shoin within the main residence of Mr. Ōta in Nishigamo.

"As longevity brings only aging's toll and the world grows ever more turbulent... In terror, I retreat to Nishigamo by Kitayama's edge—there under the mountain's shadow I thatch a makeshift shelter to house this dew-like transient form." —Nun Rengetsu

I too had thought to leave my fleeting form in this mountain village for a time.

When I came and saw—there in the southeast corner of the garden stood a tea room—I resolved to live in this very space.

Because the world was frightening—so Nun Rengetsu moved to dwell in Nishigamo village.

In the dawn of Nishigamo, I stood and watched an ox-drawn cart depart for town.

The moment vanished into the dawn sky—from houses, morning smoke rose.

Setting aside the clamorous air-raid alerts, I beheld the village moon I had not thought to see.

Upon the cart were heaped so many pumpkins—things I too found myself longing to behold.

The deep purple of eggplants in the field where morning dew still lingered—how beautiful it was.

July 30th

In just five days I had regained some weight and returned home, yet within a short time grew thin again. August 2nd.

Miscellaneous Poems

The oleander flowers bloomed in the northern neighbor’s garden; my upstairs window stood beautiful.

Though knowing full well my eating would diminish my wife and children’s provisions, I still devoured greedily. August 2nd.

This summer brought not even the sound of mosquitoes buzzing at my earlobes. August 5th.

Lying down and gazing at the evening sky, I saw two large spiders weaving their webs. August 6th.

Though the battle after defeat still raged on, all people had starved and wasted away, becoming emaciated. August 13th.

Joy Is (Part One)

In the Style of Tachibana Akemi

Joy is eating freshly pounded rice cakes at a mountain pass teahouse and drinking coarse tea.

Joy is when someone comes unexpectedly and I offer ohagi, saying, “Please eat.”

Joy is when my clumsy calligraphy stands out after being mounted and becomes worthy of viewing.

Joy is riding a steamship across the endless blue sea day after day.

Joy is when a parcel arrives and I undo its seal—something I’d resolved was beyond reach.

Joy is when my grandchild shows me their report card filled with good marks. August 10th.

*Joy Is (Part Two)*

Joy is waking and immediately packing my silver pipe to draw smoke. August 11th.

Joy is when I give a gift and the recipient rejoices with pure delight.

Joy is not eating what I crave but giving it away and seeing my grandchild’s face light up with joy.

Joy is when, casually eating, I let my old wife take the leftovers from dinner. August 12th.

Joy is when, beyond the black roofs, the purple western mountain comes into view in the distance.

Joy is when the long-staying guest departs and I savor the leftover lunch.

Joy is finishing a satisfying dinner and cooling myself on the second-floor veranda.

Joy is when I suddenly raise my eyes and see the moon beginning to shine in the evening sky. August 21st.

Joy is when I hear my grandchild return home, calling out “I’m home!” in a loud voice. August 23rd.

*Peace Arrives*

——August 15th——

Ah, joy! Against all odds, I survive to meet this day when the war ends.

Ah, joy! How joyful it is—I survive to meet this day when the war ends.

Come now, I too shall crawl from my sickbed and gaze up at the light of the clearing sky.

Unexpectedly—to dwell in a land where no sword’s shadow falls—this life itself.

Even the roar of airplane engines that until yesterday I had listened to in fear had now softened completely.

By fortune—not a single thing burned, no injuries suffered—I met this day when the war ended.

The time will surely come when I devour great steamed buns, cheeks stuffed full, and drink tea.

Come now, I too shall preserve my life and endure—three or four years more I’ll witness the world.

People say that none rejoices in this day more than must the sensei.

People say: “You who possess the right to rejoice in this day—rejoice!”

Who would have thought I’d preserve my life and that I too would meet this day?

Joy Is (Part Three)

Joy is when through the glass door, the full moon shines in, and I suddenly wake at midnight.

Joy is when gazing upon golden evening clouds, I think of Buddha’s land.

August 26th.

Joy is when I read good writings well and clearly perceive a good person’s good intentions. August 30th.

Joy is waking at dawn and listening to the ceaseless chirping of autumn insects.

September 1st.

Joy is when I eat the steamed buns my wife made, topped with sweet jam. September 4th.

Joy is when my old wife goes to bathe and leaves without showing fatigue. September 4th.

Joy is when I sit quietly all day and finish writing down my thoughts well. September 19th.

Joy is when a kite soars through the deep cobalt expanse of an autumn-clear sky.

Joy is when I see the perfectly round lingering moon in the high autumn-clear morning sky.

Joy is gazing at the autumn-clear sky and crawling out onto the veranda to bask in the sun. September 25th.

Joy is those who persist in honesty through a world that deems the upright fools.

October 27th.

Miscellaneous Poems

Though I think I should rise once more, my years do not bend to my will. August 27th.

I, with a nature that disdains movement, aged and could no longer even step beyond the gate. August 28th.

Hearing I wanted steamed buns, she made some and brought them out—but when I looked, there was no filling. September 1st.

Should Heaven grant me life, do not spare the strength to walk two kilometers with this cane.

The rain leaked; buckets and pails weren’t enough, so in the end I resigned myself to “so be it.” September 4th.

If only it were nearby—you would go and I could eat eggplants and tomatoes until my stomach was full.

If only it were nearby—he would bring tomatoes too large to hold in one hand and come visit me. (The above two poems composed after seeing Mr. Teruji Kobayashi’s postcard.)

Now again I yearned for sunlight; I went out to bask and watch ants at work.

Today again, as if my strength had drained away, I lay there with nothing to do but rest upon my pillow.

My body was so sluggish that I grew angry and unintentionally raised a rough voice. September 7th.

The Arrival of Peace (Part Two)

Everything I had resigned myself to eventually burning remains intact.

Young people who lost both hands to bombs—how sorrowful to see them survive.

Uninjured, with nothing burned—surviving to encounter this day feels like a dream.

Manchuria has returned to China; soon my child too will leave Dalian and come home. September 4th.

Who would have thought that on this day when war ceases, I would survive and still remain?

Who would have thought—truly who would have thought—that I would live in a country that spared not a single soldier?

Like leaves scattering suddenly in the wind, the military’s fierce ones wither away. September 5th.

Everything was overturned in a single morning; demons, not being Buddhas, became good—what was evil transformed into good.

How worthy it was to live—Dr. Gakudo, eighty-eight years old, living by his principles (though I did not agree with everything the doctor said).

The people who had lain low for five years were raising their heads, and their names began to be heard.

September 6th.

Miscellaneous Poems

Even hanging the mosquito net required what little strength I had; listlessly, I lay down to sleep while being bitten by mosquitoes.

My teeth fall out one after another, but I no longer have the strength to even visit the doctor.

How have I become so emaciated again? My body, now bones and skin, weighs not even nine kan. September 6th.

Would that on the evening of my death, in a hermitage surrounded by flowers, incense burning.

Would that I, surrounded by flowers in a small hermitage, lie down and part from this world.

Would that I live in a small hermitage, stuffing my cheeks with a large steamed bun and viewing flowers. September 7th.

When I die, offer flowers; arrange large steamed buns on a tray and offer them.

The stairs were as grueling as climbing a mountain; now I wished for a room downstairs.

What I wanted to eat now more than anything were steamed buns, chestnut mochi cakes, red bean buns, and sweet bean rice balls.

Which would come first—the day I died, or the day when steamed buns could be easily bought?

When it rained, it leaked; when the moon shone, it seeped through. Could this ramshackle hut surpass a trench?

Due to my nature that craves sudden changes, much to my delight, the world transformed rapidly. September 8th.

I did not crave meat or fish so much, yet with each passing day, it was only steamed buns that I longed for.

A taste surpassing that of a steamed bun wrapped in thick black bean paste—there could be no such flavor in this world.

This old and sick body longs for the aroma of black bean paste from steamed buns baked in my hometown.

At the Buddhist altar during memorial services, steamed buns were piled high—how I miss those old days.

September 9th.

In the garden, the giboshi flowers have bloomed, and this year’s summer too has passed away. September 10th.

Grant me life a little longer, and strength as well—my Creator, bestow them now.

At this time, could I just sit back and die? I would muster my strength and rise again. September 11th.

Peace came; America’s management of Japan began.

Merely hearing the names of high-ranking officials being abducted one after another gave me a reason to live.

Even in his final moments, Tojo had failed to die—September 12th when he did not receive a blood transfusion from American soldiers.

Tojo, who failed to die and was saved by Americans, was indeed the symbol of Japan. September 15th.

The evening bell of Chion-in could be heard—the sound of that bell that had long ceased. September 20th.

Miscellaneous Poems

The oleander, which I had long beheld as a flourishing flower, has now aged.

September 13th.

Even if called to come and eat until I was full, this teacher had no strength to go—how pitiful.

With a corroded cane broken and hips crumbled—crawling and walking—this body had become me.

If days passed with all things arriving too soon—indeed how my life was impatiently awaited!

Though I longed to set out on a journey once more—when would come the day I journeyed lying down? September 15th.

These past few days my fatigue had grown markedly severe.
Hidenori stated that this body could no longer even endure riding trains; that even if one were advised to go somewhere like Nishigamo one should not make lingering farewells but politely decline such offers from people of that sort and instead live quietly at home as the spirit moved.
Hearing this I thought it truly sound advice; though I had been clinging to various lingering dreams I resolved to abandon them cleanly at this juncture.
Thus I composed several poems.

Even as days pass, my former strength does not return; thus I shall resign myself and remain secluded at home.

With this corroded cane—no strength remains to return to the cicada shell’s origin.

Having become a corpse whose legs and hips cannot stand—my regret that dreams still abound.

Now is indeed the time to abandon hope; do not tell me to live long. September 16th.

Miscellaneous Poems

After the strong wind had blown, the deep purple hue of the distant mountains stood rare. September 17th.

The Hosta flowers in the garden were picked, arranged in a cup, and placed by my pillow.

The air of autumn was refreshing, but I already grew anxious about the cold of winter that would soon arrive. September 17th.

Fitting for me, who am tone-deaf—the voice of the katydid sang morning and evening in the kitchen.

A mosquito, as if its legs were as thin as my emaciated shin, bit into me and sucked blood—mid-September.

Since abandoning the struggling heart that clings to life, the heart that covets precious things has not vanished—September 19th.

Dedicated to Dr.Yasui

By September of this year, my weakness had nearly reached its limit, and I had resigned myself that the end was surely near when unexpectedly Dr.Yasui came to examine me. Declaring “This is not something to abandon; leave everything to me,” though we had previously been mere acquaintances, he thereafter visited daily to administer injections and medication, through which my physical strength gradually recovered.

In these times when most doctors refuse house calls unless given goods upfront, and patients must often supply their own injection materials, receiving such uncompensated benevolence was truly a rare blessing.

Overwhelmed with joy, I composed ten tanka poems.

To the lamp I had entrusted to its fading, you physician who keep adding oil—

Without waiting for wind's extinction, having dwindled to near nothingness, this flame now burns anew.

I had resigned myself this must be the end—yet does life still persist?

You who visit me—me who deserves only to perish in squalid lanes—do not forsake me.

To die would suffice; should I live, better still—thus I entrust what life remains to you.

On that day when hope of meeting spring had died—it was then I met you.

Though no longer a body fit for deeds, I live on still—sustained by your grace.

This old body that lives on yet can do nothing—your boundless grace too generous for me.

I pray—drawing strength from your grace—to once more step beyond the capital gates.

This withered body of old age, having endured winter—may I yet meet the coming spring? October 18th.

Miscellaneous Poems from the Sickbed

Now there remains no hope of rising again; come, let me quietly welcome death.

When I leaned by the window and gazed outside, I still envied those people walking briskly down the road.

September 20th.

Come, I too shall proceed to Yama’s court and surrender unconditionally.

“As long as I live, live on”—so my devoted mother urges me insistently. September 21st.

Does the bell of Chion-in ring? In the evening sky, trailing far off, it fades away.

If I move my bed downstairs and make it my deathbed from this day forth—

September 22nd.

Having resigned myself to having no more hope, yet already forgetting when tomorrow comes—September 25th.

Having concluded this withered body serves no purpose, from today I resolved to cease moxibustion—September 29th.

When even a small flea crawls [on me], my once-sensitive skin now sags and grows dull—October 2nd.

Today of all days—this aged body of mine still lives to witness the abolition of the Peace Preservation Law—October 5th.

A person I had not met for over a decade came to visit—saw my emaciated form and shed tears—October 12th.

In the bathhouse people kept exclaiming with boundless emotion upon seeing my withered self (I had bathed at a public bathhouse that spring—likely for the last time in my life—now recalling that day)—October 12th.

Pitying me as I curled up and lay there—the autumn evening sun shone by my pillow (already feeling winter's chill)—October 12th.

This winter might be difficult to survive—I had to hurry and write down all I wished to write.

This winter may be difficult to survive—I will eat food as much as I desire (I have no energy left; perhaps it’s still hopeless after all).

October 13th.

Having life, I encountered a day when red flags fluttered in broad daylight—ah, life! October 14th.

In this body that feared it could not survive, this year’s winter drew ever nearer.

If heaven should grant me life, I prayed for just a little more strength.

October 15th

Most of my old friends have turned to earth; only I, frail, meet this day.

This aged body, looked back upon by comrades who fought through over a decade.

October 15th

Though I had completely resigned myself, even clinging—now I will live—October 15th.

While I alone was agitated, my old wife lamented and sighed—October 18th, a time that would not return.

Chewing strange meals, sustaining strange lives—we people of this present world. October 21st.

At this brushwood gate where I forget the world and am forgotten by it—life’s tempests come visiting once more. October 22nd.

Those unversed in swimming’s art shall hunger and waste away.

Come dwell in Kyoto’s Shichijo—this quarter brims with human kindness, akin to primal antiquity. (October 23rd, having heard of Mr. Teruji Kobayashi’s unemployment.)

“Strive and you may yet endure”—thus spake the physician’s words I clutch like cane-staff now. October 23rd.

Though my heart quickened at times, in vain I lay abed all day, unable to take up my brush. November 25th.

Celebrating Mr. Kaneko’s Surpassing of Seventy Years

Effortlessly clearing the hill of seventy years, I celebrate you who still climb onward.

Most friends have all turned to earth—you alone surpass seventy.

Looking back at me gasping up the slope, from your lofty height you beckon me onward.

November 18th.

On the deathbed near death

Long have I lain ill and resting,

The undulations of my soul—

Even today—

Even tomorrow—

wishing to die abruptly soon

Days when I wish—

Two years, three years

I will strive to live on—

Days when I wish—

November 18th.

Dedicated to Comrades Tokuda and Shiga

Having been confined in prison for eighteen years—
Living in solitary confinement for over six thousand days—
Having fought and fought, they endured—
In the end, they did not bend their resolve.
they finally reached the day when they could once again behold the light of day.
Comrade Tokuda

Comrade Shiga

How magnificent is that!

In all of Japanese history since its beginning,

a precedent never before witnessed.

Ah, how enviable!

Ah, how steadfast!

Ah, how worthy of reverence!

This is a treasure of humanity.

A seventy-year-old withered old man

In the depths of a desolate, crumbling shack

Alone on his deathbed near death,

He directed his deepest respect from afar.

November 21st.

Sickbed Verses

Regrettable! The sword I had honed over half a lifetime remains undrawn; my strength has waned.

Long have I not met the White Tiger; the Blue Dragon too—potato vines yield but one sen in three days.

October 27th.

If only someone were by my pillow to take up a brush and record my thoughts...

If I am to spend my days lying abed from morn till night, what worth is there in surviving? November 25th.

[Shōwa 21 (1946)]

Welcoming Comrade Nosaka

Comrade Nosaka has newly returned.

Truly, this was a million reinforcements.

Our army henceforth—

we shall wield even more greatly.

A convicted, infirm, and declining old man

Bent with age, he sat upright on his deathbed.

He raised his voice in joy.

"If only I were ten years younger,

even I, with my meager talent,

would take up my brush and throw myself into

attaching myself to the tails of my comrades’ noble steeds,

scaling the surging people’s revolution’s

billowing waves that reach the heavens

to join in rallying the storm together."

Life like dew
It sought to fall yet had not fallen．
Though I was fortunate enough to encounter this auspicious day today，
My body had long been bedridden．
Physical strength had completely vanished．
Vitality had waned and was like smoke．
How regrettable！

Comrade Nosaka

Sixteen years had passed since he left the country.

Having traversed thousands of miles,

the day of Comrade Nosaka’s return anew

In vain, I lay upon my sickbed,
I directed my thoughts to comrades throughout the land,
I ceaselessly prayed with all my heart for their rising up. January 16th.