Pathway to Japanese Literature

This volume of songs for my deceased father,

I offered before his spirit.

Leopard's Blood (Eight Short Songs)

The physiognomist of wisdom looked at me

The physiognomist of wisdom looked at me and spoke this day:

"Your very features portend calamity—the sun grows dim,

This frail heart’s longing for another—the sky’s
clouds and gales—flee before they assail you.
Ah, flee from your slender shores,

From the swells of green pastures, from the grassy field plains—
The still-supple waves of coiled black hair—
How could you have perceived this?
When eyes closed—the ceaseless sands’ edge,
At dusk, the shadows of those who went with necks bowed—
Should one rebuke you as a starving beast wandering,
That shadow fled from you—the self’s
In the parched journey—a monochrome figure of weariness—
Then farewell—to swirling rings of fragrance, to storms of color.

The Shade of Young Leaves

The sun in its thinly clouded sky—ah, even the light had softened.

In the garden chair beneath young osmanthus leaves' shade,

When I leaned against it, all things appeared faintly across,

The melody of a song within a dream flowing smoothly.

Am I alone here—I wondered—or was my heart...

Pursuing waves—to Tokoyo-no-shima's island roots—

O sea bird, rest your wings—

Pillowed by waves, drifting between sleep and waking—this I must be.

My half-opened heart, half-closed eyes

Luring vision—truly, early summer's peonies,

Roses', poppies' beautiful blossoms danced indeed as they passed—

In resplendent and supple hues' linked cadence—
O illusion floating tenderly——steaming with fragrance
Stamen-stars——this be love's flower, auspicious lord.

Eclipse of the Spirit's Sun

The gate of life darkened timelessly—

How now—the visage of all directions grew abhorrent,

How now—this wellspring of sin in my breast—

Something stretched forth its neck and greedily sucked.

The sweetly fragrant petals wilted to no avail,

The evil fruit ripened and fell of its own accord.

When I smelled the lukewarm scent in the palm of my hand,

What an unbearable thirst of the lips it was—

Listen—the sound of things—is it the wingbeats of flying locusts,
Seething, it boils up from the depths of the great marsh.
The poisonous bubbles snap and resonate upon the water's surface,
Or perhaps—the pestilence’s clamor—the wild dogs’
At the palace of lust they howl—ah, gaze upward—
The faint stars of the heart—the eclipse of the soul’s sun.

Moonlight

In my stagnant breast where no currents flow—the sorrows and anguishes

Floating algae spread thickly—darkened to blackness—

Ever harbored twilight’s shadow steeped in stifling gloom—
Was it a dark ancient palace that was reflected in the pond water?
The stone steps had crumbled down, lying desolate at the water’s edge.
Who would praise sunken pleasures—
The song of footsteps once traced by a beauty—
The water’s dream still yearningly drew near that stone.
The flower’s yearning was as though prayer’s very words—
The shadow of the forehead-pressed face verged on extinction—
The otherworldly bond—this is the mysterious power—
From the sky came only the distant past of memory—
In the heart of the pond lay a nostalgic lingering light—
Moonlight—even now it floats and drifts from time to time.

Dew of Poison

In the night's chamber where patterns blurred—bearing thick sorrow—

Since it was wine long brewed—upon my lips—

I came to savor that whisper through all daylight hours,

My lord—ceaseless elegies.

What pain dwells in this tender drunkenness—

Shall I not remake it—this lamentation I ponder?

Do not divine, o dream within a dream—in your august garden
If it were to exist—this would be but the shadow of a mayfly’s shadow.
Deign to show the chalice—truly beautiful—
The august eyes—they that moisten the swallow’s wings—
As translucent shadow floated alongside, permeating reflection through completely.
Sublime! Now at last the turbid wine—
Shone forth through surface and depth—the soul’s craving acts—
Dew of Poison.

Come now—let us drain it together, O august one.

Jasmine

The cloudiness in my breast that choked with lament—how listless it was.

The gauze curtain undulated, held aloft and radiant,

One day your face was reflected—blooming in the field of allure.

The opium poppy that had withered into coquettishness—that scent.

Though lured by whispers that swayed even the soul,

I embraced you and seemed to weep,

Secret sorrows, the snare of dreams—in your arms,

My anguished nakedness remained unbound.

And on another evening you did not appear—the raw silk garment’s

The rustling sound of garments, swishing carelessly,

The sound merely continued—and now my heart tore apart,

In the shadow of jasmine’s fragrance within a night’s chamber.
Your entwined smile sought out the wounds upon my flesh.
Having pursued and arrived, it steeped and suffused—seeping into you.

Silence

Is it a ripened fallen fruit? Ah, look—in the sky,
The sun sways, the thickly putrescent light—

Gasping yellow into the bay's heart, it dripped,
Dissolved into waves; the waves choked unsteadily.
The round stones at the shore's edge lay hidden, absorbing,
The evening tide—sated yet wearily glittering—
The stone's brow—a listless agate's musing—
Thus indeed did it deeply illuminate this fleeting moment.

It was not the wind, nor the sound of waves—not even that—

Heaven and earth brimmed with the shadow of a single sigh,
The sands, to their farthest reaches, faded into dusk without color.
No recourse—my soul is not buried,
Here, I caught the scent of the decaying night sea,

The black pearl of silence shall guard the dream.

Daytime Reverie

A fragment of the pattern woven by daytime thoughts,

In the weft of joy, the warp threads of anguish,

Twisted and disordered stripes' colors—some cried out,

Others, intoxicated and infatuated, indeed dazzled.

Now at night's knee beneath the lamp of repose,
I rolled back and gazed intently at the woven pattern.
When I looked - dimly and precariously - there lay a slumbering beast,
A wearied bird - as if reality itself had warped its form.

Cutting and sewing this cloth—at the banquet's occasion,

The body's adornments—even those meant for the final day's—I shall not wear,

This burial shroud's fabric—what madness brews?

For life—ah—death's garment; for death—life's

Ceasing the void incense's scent—unreal,

The dream sways within waves of tender firelight.

Occasional Thoughts

No waves surged and receded—merely lay placid.
Even the calm sea knew tides’ ebb and flow—
indeed just so—the constant mind that stayed unshaken—
morning and evening, thoughts overflowed and sank again.

Autumn's Heart

The yellowing plants' scent lingered faintly,

Over the wild plain, approaching the water’s surface—it drifted and spread.

The autumn day—the pure nun’s practice and—

At the incense burner upon the altar of penitence—the heart of faith

Ignited and smoldered the marrow-like resin of fragrant wood,

The resplendent uchishiki—the dream’s unfastened garment,

The relic of a veil from days gone by—calmly

Embroidered flowers hung soundless, and in each fold,

The shadow of lingering waves from a throbbing chest,

In the moment someone saw it quiver—the voice wept outright—

Sutra chanting—ah—autumn’s voice, and joy,
Regret and rosary beads and illusions—unable to distinguish which,

In one continuous strand grew slender the long nodes of resentment,

In the cloud's shadow they vanished without trace—yet,

The affliction of endless karmic cycles' toil—

Beneath fallen leaves, among grass roots—does even concealment enter?—

That evening, the sorrowful rain of ascetic practice's

Grieving the disorder, it poured forth copiously and abundantly.

Great River

Slowly, uneventfully, the Great River flowed on.

The Great River's water in faint turbidity—profound thoughts

Dreamed while one with dust—they remained unperturbed.

The form of wisdom—this appeared to be it; how dull we were.

The grimacing flock of mute sheep

Walked laboriously along the embankment's top.

Nevertheless, the power of voiceless voices sufficed,

When one gazed upon the flow that spread the dharma shining in true midday,

Removed the lid of the sutra repository's mother-of-pearl inlaid box,

With hands of fervent prayer unraveled in wisdom's sun-shadow,

The secret characters of scrolls fluttered and scattered—

Beneath the truly clear sky, the Great River's surface—

In navy blue, golden light glitters—
At such times—may even this defiled body and world grow fragrant,
Time stands suspended—the obstinacy of foolishness, the ugly weeds'

Troubled by poison and dizzied, they devoured recklessly.

Regretting their greedy hearts while gasping,

How soft flowed the deeply drawn river water—

Mother’s milk—the sorrow that sweetly envelops—

Had seeped imperceptibly into intoxication’s marrow.

The source departed distant mountains of ascetic practice,

The eternal form pouring into Equality’s Sea,

Within currents shifting ceaselessly without sound,

The whirlpool of non-self unravels and binds, transcending thought—

The sails of ships probing for deep-sea pearls

Now shine resplendent—even within this wisdomless self unfolds

The flower of the mind’s eye, closed yet radiant,

Thus indeed sink into the bosom of the tranquil Great River.

Water in the Jar

The water in the jar had grown turbid and ancient,
This evening, it was covered—
Water in the jar,
With unsparing agitation of heart.
The sound dulled, the water gasped,
Clinging to the desolate ditch,
The sound dulled,
The bite marks of a murmured "dream".
Begone, my ancient self—begone,
The turbid depths of the water jar stirred,
Begone, my—

Ah, all these stagnant thoughts.

The evening glow of clouds that shone,

Nay, in the final droplet of the jar,

Shone—
My heart thus was startled.

"Is it 'love,' the droplet’s jewel?
Truly pure, the timeworn fragrance,"

“Is it ‘love’?”

The pearl—ah—sinks into darkness.

Night fell; though lament dared,
I embraced the desolate jar,

Night had fallen,

Precariously, the heart parches.

Vermilion mottling.

Sunlight’s

Green—how comforting.

Ah, mysterious!

A tree-lined path in shade.

Joy

Overflowing—is that you,

Toward yonder,

Summer clouds in the void.

Ah, bright!

The gaps where branches extend

Spiraling

The color of glittering clouds.
You—I—
The two on the tree-shaded path,
Green’s
Fragrance was comforting.

Soft wind.

Fanning, the red—

All the leaves
wavering and fluttering,

Quiver
Sunlight’s vermilion mottling,
Abruptly—
Tumultuous my thoughts.

You—
White sails entering the channel—
Into my very being—
The stake of fleeting love.

Soft wind.

Fanning without straying from the channel—

Whither?

You depart—ah, cruel.

In thought—
Through turbulent moments of time

Summer clouds.

Heavily collapsed.
Green—

Vermilion? You, bright one's—

In tree shade

Uncanny pollution of the chest.

Winding slope.

Panting as I climbed the gentle slope—the midpoint of my world's slope—

The fallen leaves from aligned trees burned and dried by the scorching day, out of season.

In pain and decay, they gently detached from the treetops and scattered to cover the ground.

If one looked at the fallen leaves, their surfaces half-scorched and rust-reddened,

Even in the remaining green at the edges, insect-infested marks of diseased sores,

Distorted black spots—horribly vivid—were imprinted.

At times, the wind’s breath—whirling through crossroads without even blowing—

The scorched and festering road's grit, together with leaves—corpses of anguish—

Stirring the burning ashes of extinction—ah, this pitiless play of grief.

In every cluster, dust-choked weeds found no rest—

They resembled the brine-sea's thirst that knows no quenching.
Relentlessly,

The path climbed with restless heart refused its gentle end.

The fleeting pleasures of withering dreams now lie within the nobleman's carriage.

As it rocks into slumber, that carriage's crest—

To my weary-dazzled eyes—a flower steeped in lineage's mystery.

Neither flesh nor spirit decays—ah, were I but prey to eternal darkness—

If I were to become prey—how calm this day would be!

The gentle slope where anguish never ends—the path exists yet has no horizon.

Anxiety.

People now bowed to the earth and proceeded hesitantly,

Detestable—the shadows of drooping necks—soft wind

In a caressing gust, resembling mulberry leaves,

Like silkworms, all kept their heads bowed.

From where did the wind descend? Their bodies quivered,

I involuntarily lifted my face to the sky—
this heart forever starving, its torment insatiable—
material desires clinging heavily about me.

The land lay desolate; behold, here stood Famine’s footstalks—
Who with profit’s sickle reaped prone “people” as wealth—
In autumn of the world they harvested—ah, let it be so—

What they dreaded lay elsewhere—heaven’s visitation.
The occasional upward gaze at the sky’s light—
Sea of Bliss; the floating sun’s shadow dazzled—

The trembling body thus—eyes devoid of faith—
Pierced through, those eyes wandered again in longing confusion.
Where had the wind blown across and departed—
All people restlessly lowered their faces,
Gasping like blind fish in their midst—
My uneasy thoughts consumed themselves.
Where might I regain these lost wings,
In this world where wandering proves futile—its ordained fate,

My soul finds solace in agonizing dreams,

My soul—ah—in the scent of decaying flesh.

Despair.

Reality lay exposed—the perfumed oil's
luster faded; all things stood stupefied—
My heart reflecting dreams resembled a mirror
Even one's very nature sickened in vacant emptiness

Existing as itself—without purpose—enduring being
No words remained; no melody—only nakedness laid bare—

The life of one without a bedchamber—the "pain" of naked form,

So be it—no suffering inhabits the body; tears lie parched.

O Recollection! Here you cease to be recollection—
The extinguished lamp’s former brazier,
Blackened—the ephemerality of those strands—
Joy—how could it be illuminated anew?
Before the eyes—the desolate path crumbled,
The rain of sorrow poured down, washed, scoured,
The earth’s skin grew wild, while the vast sky—
Had cleared with casual heartlessness.
Chinese silver grasses here and there reflected the light.

Seashells, earthenware flasks shattered—
Some in indigo, some in vermilion—painted flowers'
Several fragments, undecayed, by the roadside.
The soul-smoldered sea’s color, a feast’s painted smile,
All here bore the name 'emptiness'—ah, no hope—

Scentless, seizing this apparition,

The sun cruelly looks down from beyond the cage.

Lamplight.

The human world had unawares—

Dusk does not fall—flowers bloom.

The world once filled with fragrance—now,

Dusk does not descend into silence.
Fading away, unseen to the end.
Shadows of dreams trail their hems.
Within eyes veiled in thin haze.

Ah, this hollow semblance.

Lamplight of the mortal realm,

Through gloom-laden trees,

Does it lament with desolate purity,
Lamplight’s fair bird.
Mother bird—heavenly
Yearning for the sun’s course,
Weeping ceases not, lamenting,
The sorrow of the voice.
Lamplight’s splendid bird,
In the delicate sound of desolation,
Countless thoughts’

Hearken to the pearl, now.
Darkness has fallen—fragrance too—
Another hue becomes one,
To sound has joined lamplight.

The distant sound of a flute…

Grass blades.
Smeared with sunflowers' pistil-pollen gold,

Ah, dusk's dim glow,

Decaying grass blades,

Grass blades abide solely in desolate purity.

This evening, in the cloud-clearing sky—summer’s

Ah, may there be splendor too,

Dim shadows of things.

Grass blades—the final resting place.

Vows to sunflowers—Bodhi's east,

Ah, Nirvana's west,

Karmic bonds lay upon grass blades—

Grass blades fell silent in stillness.

Sunflowers—a golden rain of pistil pollen—

Ah, tears—

Decaying completely and crumbling away,

The pollen veiled the grass blades' breast.

Desolation.

In the rustling of palm fronds that faded into dusk of a summer evening,
The slackened palm fronds rustled,
O split leaves—ah—stems stretching long, tips broken drooping trembling,
Palms offered to heaven—the throes of utmost anguish.
Truly it must be—that devotee of pure faith,
Who gasped in solitary prayer,
The illusion held within his chest aching toward the clouds, the earth's tremor——
Even that much—the air of supplication hung like smoldering fragrance.

Sublime! The evening sky—the celestial broad leaves,
Round and full, breath profound,
All things quiver in shadow as darkness deepens—O Morning Star,

Behold, the eternal solemn garden—light's radiance.

There—ah—daytime surf and nocturnal tides,

The brininess of a heart that churns,

Tears of faith? Palm blossoms in yearning's desolate dark—

Trickling down trunks, spilling at roots.

In this moment

Lapis lazuli’s

At high tide, the shore's—

Even the shoreline—

The shoreline cracks as if about to split.

The wind calms,
Waves lie prostrate—the deep sea,
The Celestial Sun—

Shone forth, serenely.

Whither bound—

Seeking onward—at this moment,

O sails of the ship,

Slowly, they drifted toward the far side.

Was this bliss—the ship,

The ensign couldn't be made out—

Life too—

Like death—that moment.

All too—

All too sufficient—the open sea,

Silence—

How like a tempest!

The Celestial Sun—

Moistened, the sun’s halo,

The halo's ring—
May the rainbow too adorn it with color!
The lapis lazuli tide, ripened, soaked through
Upon the unglazed vessel—
A sea that is not—how could it be...

Upon the unglazed vessel,
A sea that is not, inauspicious—
A child is born—
The rainbow’s colors are extinguished.
Is this bliss—the ship,
The sail's markings can't be discerned—

Whither bound—

Seeking onward—this moment.

No sound existed

A curtain of light descended.

The wind swayed gently through.

Vastly, yet deeply blue,

Under the May sky.

A drop of life

Blessed—my chest’s

Steps—the flickering light’s

Engraved at its edge.

The blessing came, the flowers bloomed,

A garden of jewels aglow,
Faintly, the flowers decayed,
Faintly, they disintegrated.
The shadow slowly—
shifting—the steps—
trailing length of hair—
The shadow had dreamed.
Be that as it may—love's, ah,
Orphan—my soul
In life's flower-shade
Pained and voiceless.

Summer Song

The hazy summer day's midst
Became saturated with carnal thoughts,
The smoldering depths of the maiden's gaze—
Confronting it, the heart was tormented.

Though nothing occurred,
Something concealed its presence—
The tenacious force gently tilted
The weighty world askew.

Beyond the window stretched a grassy bank
Where a katydid chirped capriciously—
Then abruptly fell silent—
As the hazy day stagnated thick with humidity.

After a moment's pause came swift movement
Through reed roots—

As the blue lizard darted about,
The soil, parched and crumbling,

For a time, it slid down the cliff.

The rank scent of the pond,

From the tepid surface spreading,

The gardenia flowers had fallen——

The decaying corpse of "Time".

Without anything happening,

Something concealed its presence,

Before the eyes, melting away——

Summer clouds—the sky sweated.

Autumn Song

Sighs upon tender moss.

Stone pavement at true midday,

Pure autumn lingers—

The temple compound's hushed precincts—

The tall fir trees standing in rows—
In shadows steeped in knowing semblance—
A dull-smoldering purple robe
Emulated prayer's folded hands.

The quieting precincts of the temple compound—
The stone pavement's sound grew faint
As fluttering fallen leaves drifted into a dream—
Sobs fell like droplets of sorrow.
The boundless fragrance of autumn lingered—
White wax's slender flame—
My heart now swayed,
Then suddenly wavered at the flowers' hues—
The flowers' hues—the hibiscus's withering—
The silence of decay's countenance.
Silence's dew seeped and perfumed—
In every way a faint illusion.

The quieting temple compound—autumn
Autumn's presence stole in and dwindled into extinction,
In faint shadows glimmered
The golden shrine's light.

Anguish

That Christian I had heard of—were the ancient torments thus?—

The twilight of the shadow-deep breast—the chamber’s door was not locked,

When I dwelt in the depths of warring thoughts and prostrated to sink,

The soul’s light thins; dust and ash block the ‘heart’.
Fearful "Doubt", alas, dwells in my own flesh—
Though no one else comes to accuse me, the shadow's futile play—

"What is this? Does the faction of Fear gather around to surround me?"

In threatening guise, the torch flames continued.

Saint Maria—to this weak sinner did faith's tide
revive, circle back, and overflow upon flesh's shore—
Prostrate on tidal flats lamenting—I too, shell-leaves of emptiness—
Spreading dharma's joy through rippling waves—when shall I meet Your grace?

"Be that as it may, the village magistrate of my 'Desire' stealthily approached,"

He persistently berated and cornered me as a practitioner of forbidden heretical arts,

Relentlessly pressing me to trample upon the sacred image—ah, how vile!

It was not I who cried out, "O God, do not crucify this body."

Choking on sulfur-boiling smoke, I tumbled from my seat,

Weary from anguish as though in the valley of volcanic hell,

I thought I had died and lived again—it was a dream, the night's altar.

I lit a wax flame and prayed to the secret of the holy scripture in kana.

What awaited was the radiance of the lofty voice of revelation leaking through—

Faith alone became its witness, though this sinful heart—

I waited for the princess of heaven's voice of praise to resound clearly,

When all concluded—those words, "I forgive you"—that He would proclaim.

Delusion's Dream

The damp 'Lament's window—even thus,

I sealed shut and plastered over completely with pure white,

On top of that hung a patterned rug—

Vermilion and jade green intermingled, radiating a dazzling intensity.

Gazing upon this entrancing sight, my heart grew bewildered,

Whom, ah, do I summon to this solitary chamber?

I and my own wishes, hopes—and then—
Not even a guest came to mind this night.
I solemnly meditated, quiet yet perfectly composed,
Lighting white wax upon a golden stand,
That flame's countless layered rings swirling around—
Through the smoldering night, I would not sleep.

A melody of love as solace in idleness—
In the interlude of hesitant thoughts intending to play,
A shadow crept near—who was there?—in dread—
My pulse—the water clock crumbled away—
Blind Lament through the long night
Faintly—

Even now still shaking the floral-patterned rug—

When breath labored in gasps, the once-blazing candle's
flame-glow too grew ever more dampened and yielding.
A delusion-laden dream it was—this wholehearted—
This solitary chamber: ephemeral 'Regret's' bats
wings flapped sparsely—intermittent rustling sounds.

The sound resonates—ah, how the soul trembles!

Scent of Annihilation

Softly resplendent in aged beauty,

On the wall's surface—my recollections'

The palace of spirits, sated with splendor,

Even the foil application had faded there,

Dust of gold powder, soundless.

O scent of annihilation, O fragrance of clinging—

Generations upon generations faded into shadows,

The sighs of days gone by faintly,
Life’s aimlessly smoldering

Only dreams traverse eternity,
They whispered; they lamented.
Strangely, they sank into light.

This wall within my chest—its surface,

Vexingly dulled it appeared,
The depths of wearied shadows,
The illusion floated adrift—

Lustrous now, the verdigris

Pastoral carpets, and navy lapis lazuli—

O sweet slumber of richly hued flowers,

And yet the artifice of my thoughts,

I recalled my karmic fate.

Intoxication’s sway, delusion’s bewilderment—

Before my eyes appeared the sacrificial lamb,

The pain of vermilion stains—ah, could it be—

The sweet weariness of carnal desire

Intermingled with purple contamination,

The shadow of karma, samsara's thousand years,

Passing momentarily to vanish,

How many times had this yearning transmuted?

In Nikumura’s dream of repentance,
decay reverberated with Buddhist chants.
The teachings of Nirvana from the Western Heaven—
Buried were my recollections—ah.

The hollowness of this troubled chest,
though the hue of earthly desires might permeate,
all things bore marks of apparitional manifestations—
the bloom of silence, desolation’s mystic scent—
left not a single trace behind,
the phantom of the Mani jewel of Emptiness.

Depths-of-depths—
depths-of-depths, the depth of dreams—
festering mud’s scent imbued,
my thoughts did float.

The musings of ephemeral bubbles—dream’s

Upon Ōyodo's surface they formed,

Gently undulating, they traced swirling rings.

In stagnant rust-green,

Thick dreams seeped through,

The breath-stifling vicinity’s atmosphere.

Shoreless, knowing no bounds—

Silence profound—even voices decayed,

Alas, this melancholy dread.

Bubbles circled and circled,

Ōyodo's surface dulled

The trace of slackening vortex rings.

In the depths of a melancholy dream

In the moment when the soul faded away,

The thoughts of ephemeral bubbles remained unbroken.

Decayed voices raised high

Though my heart's cry strove to shout,

Emptiness—only the festered scent remains.

This boundless stillness—

A whirling sensation of oppressive dread,

Boundless dream's tremor.

Gray

Over all things—gray

Mist, be silent—day’s end,
That gray they name as hue,
As though hearing hue’s gasp.
Cold and heavy winter mist,
Ah, desolate indeed—both love and this world,
Revelry and people alike in monochrome,
Faith and delusion, body and spirit.
Appearing as a forest of death
The gnarled nodes of the grove’s branches—
It pains—in the wind—the sound of regret,
The mist of attachment in gray.
Days gone by resist their passing,
My thoughts, so hard to forget,
In the passing shadows of haze
Winter mist startled into being.

I wander lost

I am lost in the deep "nilbana",

Supple hair coiled about the body,
Earthly desires entwined the wavering night,

I had grown familiar and become intimate with "nilbana".

On the wall was rendered the flower of attachment—

The heavy scent of the bedchamber's enclosed space,

Strange petals upon the flower's stamen,

The fire's shadow too grew envious; it writhed wantonly.

Whispers of dreams undulated wantonly.

Agate's sweet slumber—nilbana,

On spread pelts where even luster held nobility

Graceful undulations—tremulous layers.

Vines of carnal desire entwine.

The window at daybreak amidst Buddhist chants—

The secret parrot gives no warning—

“Ah, nilbana—star of dawn.”

The mirror fogged with incense—

The stifled breaths mingled in the chamber,

The mirror did not clear—shadow and shadow,

Upon awakened bare skin, I wander lost.

Split-Husk Leaves

The sun lamented, unbeknownst to all,
The sun—over the garden grown desolate——
Flower phantoms—heat haze,
The bluish-white vestige of yesterday.
The sun wept openly over the garden—
The disordered seeds of split-husk leaves,
The sun pitied once more—split-husk leaves of nameless grasses,
Split-husk leaves leaving no keepsake.
In the midst of ruin and rampant growth,
The pale green of burgeoning songs,
Ah, split-husk leaves—a hundred seeds,
A droplet of fragrance mingled as one.
Poppy flowers on mottled-leaved vines,

The chalice of intoxication’s numbness

I shall praise from myself the honeysuckle—

The sun lamented the seeds’ disorder.

The sand does not burn.

The sand does not burn; the soles are slightly painful.

Taking shelter in the shadow of a familiar shorebound rock,

In the mottled shore plants, I recalled the gold of spread pelts,

"Come now—here I would behold the boundless world’s dream."

Indigo and open sea, silver and the wind’s shimmer—

At the horizon’s edge rose no shadows,

Upon the broad tide emerged sails shining across,

The distant ships resembled chalices of fortune.

All people and I grieved ceaselessly,

Wandering the shore’s edge in beautiful sober bewilderment,

The waves’ reverberating roar within the sea’s bosom—

In words I had drowned these dark thoughts.

Today shall I dream—of yūgen's emblems awhile—
With heart at ease—sorrow crawls toward me—
A sea-ignorant land—a forest beyond barren peaks—
They must have sought some primal cave where none dwell—

Be that as it may—what remedy exists? To this knowing heart—
The karmic imprints leer through mocking masks—

The fragrance of the forest from the kalpa’s primordial morning still lingers,

Has soaked in—into my bare-skinned flesh.

If one traces further to the divine garden—ah, there indeed—

The crystalline orbs, living intensely, must have sung,

Leaves whisper, moss is fragrant; I too, in the soft down...

Divine grace must have reclined in profound shadows.

All things were destroyed and scattered—they, born as humans,

They struggled and descended to the sea’s edge,

All are the shattered remnants of glory—(do not look back)

All people are divided there and do not wander.

Ōwada Plain, Plain of Heaven—double-layered curtains

Futilely enveloping this colorless world,

In the wind’s light of silver, in the tide’s indigo,

Eternity was woven into warp and weft.—

Let the profoundly mysterious dream be as it may; it was not worth waiting for.

In the manifest world, the ship of salvation did not come,
(Though the sails shone), the body was weary, crumbling away.
Billows flipped like venomous wings.
The spirit of emptiness floated upon an abyss of unknowable depths,
Ah, my body at the shore of the resonantly stirring sea――

Once more at this hour, my sorrow emerged from the forest.
Thinking it was a beast—I heard footsteps stealthily return.

Sea Worms

The ebb tide receded slowly—
Behold its withdrawing aura—
In Horie lay no ships—
No sailors—no chanteys—
Turbid currents flowed sluggish
Through the darkening ebb tide—

The desolation of Horie—
There lay the shadows of waterways.
Upon the desolate riverbank
Writhed sea worms’

Ah, how fleeting this body—
Fearing, I dreamed.
Beloved sea’s fragrance—
Wind, pass through—now,

Clouded softly,

Secluded itself—the sea’s fragrance.

Turbid Horie River

At darkening currents' end,

The inlet—calmly,

Glittering distant shore.

O distant one, Princess of Sea,

Might seagull dance,

This body—mere sea-worms'—

Trembling feared while drowned in drunken oblivion.

The ebb tide—truly at its limit

At the bottom of the black mud’s watercourses,

In Horie, not a single ship comes—

Let alone a sailor’s song.

Great Saw

The sound of pulling the Great Saw slackened—
Like a solitary murmur—
Nevertheless, drowsily resumed once more.

Ah—the sultry summer evening,
The wind's breath churns the stagnant heat—
Churning the languid waves—

Those inside the lumber shed standing on the riverbank,

The dull sound of pulling the Great Saw

The exhausted anguish of gnashing teeth.

Back, front, the lumber shed’s doorway—

The scent of raw blue-green water, and—

The reddening dust’s fragrance.

The wide-bladed Great Saw moved—
A dull sound—was it grinding some uncanny beast’s corpse against the sand?
Scatteringly, the dripping blood—
When scattered among the sawdust—
How deeply fragrant grew the scent of wood.
The Great Saw moved slowly again—
In the reflected glow of evening clouds—
The hut’s interior burned briefly.
The lumberjack’s calves, backs of knees—
Shoulder meat, arm tendons—
Front and back—stretching—swelling—
Bare skin all soaked in sweat—
At this moment—beneath the scent of wood—

I listened—to the viper’s scent.
As the darkness of night crept closer,
the sawyer struck the great saw,
the hoarse voice of a frivolous song.

Pristine Blossom

Night and day indistinguishable—in a single room, truly awe-inspiring, the electric dynamo’s
O fountain of roaring voices! How profound the forest depths through which you passed—

Within lurked a spirit beast, blue flames clenched in its fangs—

Here, the Mysterious One's corporeal form cast off its robe of dreams.

Even the unfathomable ocean abyss paled before the secrets of this reality—

To compare their depths proved futile—he slept, weighed down by slumber,

Only to the ominous fish did he let his darkened heart quiver,

This invited the root of all phenomena to harmony's core.

The old decayed into ruined streets; what should newly prosper...

In the half-formed margins of the Flower Capital, a clod of earth neither shaped nor concluded—

The grassland covered in dust—and at its center, something awe-inspiring.

It was the roar of the great electric dynamo that knew neither day nor night, ceaselessly.

Granite unloaded from ships lay piled upon the riverbank’s sand,

Which would become the edifice’s cornerstone? Gazing into the distance, they continued intermittently—

Brick vault.
People were submerged amidst this chaos,

(Though they had aspirations but no renown), they devoted themselves to strength and skill.

Ah, those who partook in new life within the realm of ideation also—
Were lashed by the fierce voice of the mind-king roaring in their chests,
Into the pillars that had to be raised—the true form of wondrous hopes—
Deeply engraving them, they moistened their foreheads with unrenowned sweat.

There were the vehicle's iron wheels—golden lubricant in the axle.

When poured, it cut swiftly through the sky—the electric dynamo resounded with a great noise,

In the depths of that force’s vortex, one listened to the silence—

The living resonance’s lapis stone—this was the ‘True’ Vajrasana.

How strange it was—the wires crawling along the soapstone wall

Countless veins of traversed histories—manifold spirals—in a new age, renewed.

The prime mover transmitting life—that very power was the Pristine Blossom,

The radiant fragrance of Dharma sound’s unfolding light approached humanity.

Faith-Joy

He slept quietly; even within his slumbering soul’s night palace all remained undisturbed—

I awoke to a morning of surpassing clarity tinged with blue, and turning to look back—

"Yesterday," resembling a hunchback, clung to Time’s passing staff.

Where had he gone? Even I, who had bent my thoughts in anguish, found no release in my heart.

How wondrous the spilled seeds—my existence grows wild yet remains firmly rooted.

What could compare to this single morning of "Faith-Joy" that brings blessings?

I shall not exchange this for aught—though Compassion’s divine hand lies veiled—the argent balance,
The golden scale’s measure—this body’s weight suspended from the polar star of utmost extremity.

Truly stilled was this morning’s dawn—in a joy never before known—
My emaciated chest, hunched and cold—moistened by melting snows, winter having passed—
Patches of earth’s radiance and dandelion flowers—the modest budding of outer surfaces—
In spring-like young shoots, etched vows lingered faintly.
Without conscious intent, when I strained my ears toward the distance—
My heart attuned to seek the sound of roaring waves and clashing winds—
Yearning permeated the window’s edge; a small bird wheeled to vanish—
Through fearful interstices, I discerned—the distant ages made present here.

Thus floated my 'karmic destiny,' [and] the delicate woman's piercing eyes—
The bead ornaments encircling [her] neck—as if resonating,
Lapis lazuli whispered to rubies—(behold, a sequence of suffering’s threads)—
Green and purple—the grains of love, of earnest seeking, of faith.
Truly perplexed by this morning’s wonder until the following evening,
Were I to doubt even myself, the evil wind would further stir the kalpa’s flames—
Should they lure and block my path ahead, what recourse remains—these slackening arms—

If these arms lack strength to scoop pure water for parched lips—

Or perhaps the bull of 'Desire,' its horns twisted by 'Ignorance' into blunted dullness,

Wearied by a peaceful life that sufficed in pastures, wandering aimlessly—

Should one cross the crumbling fence—a starless night path—

Who would wield their whip to point toward future generations' virtuous realms?

Or those barbarian hordes lurking within timber's unyielding nature—

As if massing—I, beneath my unopened forest's shade,

Shall I be confounded? By their spears of lingering rebellion now assaulting—

Before blood stains them—does any heart stand ready to purify? No.

Venerable Ones of solemn vows, O Bodhisattvas all—these souls wandering through the three realms,

O Venerable Ones, take pity on these souls and let your compassionate hearts incline toward them—suddenly,
Having encountered a morning where earthly desires were exhausted, today I depart on a journey of self-abandonment—
O Awakened King, bestow upon me your compassionate deeds in this pilgrimage journey.

Sanctum of Evil

The sweat-laden day too turned to evening,
In the sky—a profound splendor—
The ephemerality of its fading state—
Waves of color daubed upon sand—

The colors deepened in the "Western" pool—
A yellow bull? Clouds refused to gather,
A golden ring hung upon a horn—
The sound of weary crumbling faltered.

There, the forest trees stood dense—
Dark green tinged with purple—

Dusk's dust began to fall,

Dust abruptly gained life,

These were ninety thousand wings of darkness,
Murmuring faintly, steeping in shadow,
Winding around leaf undersides, entwining through branches,

They flowed onward to the nest of "Night."

Summer dusk—ah, this oppressive gloom—
The groaning of impurity in the damp heat,
Brewing plague, malarial fevers—
Ah, is this a forest? In gnarled shadows—
In near-soundless semblance—

Trunks and branches shrouded in darkness,
Pointed leaves, broad leaves, drooping leaves—
Ah, was this a forest—the sanctum of 'Evil'?
The scorching sky’s final—
Gnawing at light, the tiger beetle—
Sorcery that bewildered the world—
That aura likened to a nun's,
Quietly rose and vanished away,
Yonder, in the depths of a pathless passage,
Devouring the seed of living things—
Snake-entwined hall of "flesh".
As nothing but the Road to Yomi—the sanctum of 'Evil'—
In the midst of entwining vines,
All things rotted and decayed, yet
The pith of resin seething in tree trunks
Was frankincense—at this very hour—

Dripping and congealing, defiled,
From the very body—pure meditation’s—
As if oozing forth, it comes to emit fragrance.

All things existed without pattern,
At night's gate where dusk sought to fall,

Mottled black-and-white wings beat,
Fluttering, circling moths,
The watching eyes were pressed and found no peace.

The wellspring of thought too fluttered,
And thus even this uncertain world here
At darkness' border fluttered.

Lizard tail

Satsuki in the ditch's tainted water
Steamed darkly, seethed up—
A small hut, in an abandoned house's shadow:
The lizard tail plant (white-flowered
(single-petaled—four segments), morning and evening,
Emerging from rotten wood to block the sun
Where winged ants' remains were buried—
Grew accustomed to the dark fragrance.

On what sin's ominous convergence day
Did this seed first form?
Flower of lizard tail—and the lineage's—
Were one to rectify its pedigree, this would be Kshatriya—
A form not Shudra—

The flower's four petals were white lotus blossoms,
The leaves were rounded, yet—
The surface of its hue grew turbid.

Defiled and stinking ugly weed—

In one of those kindred leaves

Who taught it? They could not depart—

Entwined by demon roots of envy,

As they chewed on the sprouting buds,

This now was woven into the mandala,

the True Reality that indicated the Pure Land's

The original nature that would make it a flower.

Ah, one-eyed yin-yang master,

To the ancient Crow I entrusted,
The lizard tail inherited from times past—
The symbol of karma revealed through divination.
When seen with the correct eye, one attained the Way,
Alone bearing sin—dharma’s kind?

In the flower's heart shone stamens bright—
Fire's scent piercing through night.
Temple bells' tones grew dimmed,
Sealed within May's clasp—each instant's
Death rained down where shadows swim,
Festering ditch's poisoned stream,
Winged ants from rotted wood emerged
To block the sun—their carcasses merged
With lizard-tail's pale lotus bloom
(Single-petaled quartet of doom)—
At flower-sated sepulcher's tomb.

Epitaph

I

I rejoiced, I wearied,

I struggled; I grew weary.

The root of life grows white

While death's fruit exudes fragrance.

Sleep persists; weariness endures,

I drank the moment of falling.

II

From here there was no path;
Peaceful—even the fork in the further path stood tranquil.
Pallid sobbing—
A voice cracked—mist of stifled lamentations.
When souls drew near—
Desolate—ah—crystalline orb.
Death measured all worth universally,
Difficult to attain—yet in the end...

III

People, the cold tombstone of the grave,
come, tread upon me and rise.
O Crow's kin,

Blind you are, may you stumble—the future distant
Of the continuing stairs, I too am one step.

IV

Flesh—the soul—

Two forces,

Life—Death—O,

Adamantine whetstone of truth,

Sharpening which,

Mani’s diamond.

Derided flesh

“God’s” sacrificial offering.

The hollow soul

“Viper’s” wisdom.

The flesh of flesh

I now recall.

Awaken, O “Human”—

Soul of souls.

Even winter must pass through such days,

The smoldering fragrance of sunlit south,

Let winter too pass through such days,

Snow softened in object-shadows,

Branches sway; the hedge quivers.
Such days—ah, such days—
I have waited in vain—this desolate world of mine,
The sunlit south of a desolate heart,
The fragrance of smoldering memories.

Faintly in the marsh waters' far reaches,

The cadence of waterbirds' wingbeats.

With a roar—the storm once again—

When the blue sky's abyss raged,

That surface frothed with icy bubbles,

Glittering with a silver hue.

Is winter now its final breath?

Evergreen trees groaned deeply,

Ilex branches trembling—

The quivering of a soundless dream.

And so afterward—the stillness of time,

Let even winter pass through such days,

Spring's yeast—beneath the snow

Sweet thoughts surged forth.

Yet beyond the water marsh,

The waterbirds' wingbeats parted.

Oak rain

At the distant standing trees—ah,

In the depths where May rain smoldered, the pale sun—
Shone without intent, swelled full
A golden exhalation floated moistened upon the green.
My path lay within the rain,
A soft wind blew upon a sweat-beaded forehead,
Steamed forth—the torment of the heart,

The rain-soaked gravel path, pale in color.

When I gazed intently into the distance,
could that be a monastery carving golden lotus light,

A forest where even dreams are bright continues—

Ah, here at last—the descent of Long Slope lay dark.

My path ran along a ditch,

The water in the ditch grew turbid; now and then,

Bare feet smeared with mud,

Lowly beings passed by, staggering in drunken oblivion.

Here indeed was gloom,

In the shade to one side, a single oak tree's young leaves,

Hiroha alone remained unclouded;
the rain too splashed suddenly into the greenery, dripping steadily.

Song of May

Clouds now drifted languidly across,

Ah, May—the musk of clouds,

The scent of wheat also wafted through the air,

The wave folds of wheat’s scent undulated.

The sun grew drunk, the greenery steamed forth,

The field glistened moistly,

Soaring skylark—the soul of Arak,

Soft wind—its light dance ended.

Behold, Mizue, the quivering of young leaves,

The intervals between swaying treetops

Blue sky! Peacock’s tail feathers,――

Rosary beads, lapis lazuli waves.

Satsukino's heart throbbed—

A song of lilting rhythm’s fragrance—

Steamed by the sun, drunk on green,

Waveringly, it spread onward.

Late Autumn

The shadow that whispered and departed—

The sake steeped in the cup

(Left undrunk), Ah, how tormenting,

Grown bitter, turbid with sorrow.

The shadow that whispered and departed—

Even tidings now remained unceasing,

When time had passed with no wind at all,

A piercing cold; flesh erupted in goosebumps.

Drenched in the desolate garden,

Stone-hewn base—the carved surface’s

A faint dullness clouded over—desolation,—

“Joy” did not return though one waited.
Clouds—behold—the sky’s torment,
Life’s memento blown away and discarded—
As though sounding the conch of “Sorrow”

The daytime moon—the scar indeed throbbed.

And thus it faded and weakened once more.

The sun's recession, the wind's decline,

The ginkgo tree silently turned yellow—lo,

Ash-gray poplar’s fallen leaves.

A cluster of roses yonder,
The fading hues of withering flowers,
The crumbling buried heart,
The desolation of earth’s scent choked.
Look at the sky—what could one be waiting for,—
Unnoticed, the weather shifted,
As the rainy night grew slightly muggy,
Autumn now breathed thickly.
Inexorably troubled became the voice,
The lament of the cup’s glass and
The song of fading roses and—
Such days—a lingering melody.

Prelude Melody

I

Gorgeously, the setting sun—yonder,
Spear cedars, rows of hinoki cypresses,
Gorgeously cast its glow upon them.
(Behold, the distant sky,
As dusk approached, the clouds parted.)
From the middle upwards, the tree trunk,
Thick foliage’s treetops—suddenly flushed crimson,

From the middle downwards, the tree’s base darkens.

(Now, the sky above—
the sound of wind tormenting winter.)

A dream? The crowns of the trees,

Eyes gazing upward—the pupils sing,

A dream? The dream’s radiance.

(Clouds and wind—
an evening storm welcoming spring.)

II

My legs in the cold earth
Cannot be planted—these profound torments,
My legs are heavy, they waver.—

The cold earth—

"Death's prison from which there is no escape."

In the shadow of fragrant grace,

The upper branches of 'memory' pierce the underworld,

The fragrant heavenly form—

the shadow of grace

The strings of darkness pluck the prelude melody.

How near joy seems—my
Garden of hope, flow of light,
I greet the morning of joy.
——

How near that seems—

Though the night rages, though it gasps.

III

Were I to encounter spring in the waking world,

First’s yellow, Second’s purple,

In the waking dream, my very self—

Alas, this body—again

May I grow intimate with the soul's evergreen constancy.

When tomorrow becomes today's sorrow—

Koto violets, kugo magnolias,

When the morrow comes and one were to take delight—

So then, heart—

How does it smolder, in recollection.

Darkness falls; now lies barren,

O world! O I! Merely a single strand—

Darkness falls; darkness swirls—

Thus the thread of hope—
The thread became entangled, and snapped at last.

Mountain dweller.

The mountain dweller groaned faintly, trembling uncontrollably.

On their chest clasped a pair of hands—

“Princess... that hand…”

The mountain dweller tossed restlessly; the air thickened.

The mountain dweller’s pillow lay dark and desolate,

The lamp’s glow clouded in the night chamber,

“Princess... it had illuminated...”

The mountain dweller sweats on their forehead.

The mountain dweller sought something with labored breath.

They muttered painfully,

“Princess… listen… ask—”
The mountain dweller’s lips had not faded.
The mountain dweller’s eyes turned and sank deep—
enveloping torment—
“Princess, be still…”
The night’s air thickened around the mountain dweller.
The mountain dweller sank into sleep; Kooridani’s...
The pulse throbbed, then slackened—
“Princess… ah, ah…”
The mountain dweller’s face smiled faintly.
In this brief interval of the mountain dweller—(three years as that person’s wife)—how did one perceive—
(three years as a wife)—how did one perceive—

“Princess, fear not…”

The mountain dweller’s dream cracked.

Change the mountain dweller’s pillow—though it had grown old—

Does fresh cloth yet exist,

“Princess… where…”

The lamp extinguished beside the mountain dweller.

The bell begins to toll.

“Where is the fire?” says the girl—
“Look, the temple!” says the child’s mother—

Father said, “How strange, this night…”

(The bell began to toll through Buddhist chants—
crimson lotus resonance.)

“On the temple roof, fire dances—

“Ah—is that the dove’s fire, its flame?”

The girl gazed intently.

(The bell screamed, with Buddhist chants—

(the storm of ignorance.))

“Fire summons fire—now, the rafters,
Now again, the ridgepole—the end-time fire,
“Look,” said Father, “All is fire.”
(The bell resounded, with Buddhist chants—
agony of scorching heat.)
“How does fire burn the majestic temple?” said the child’s mother—
Father said, “How strange—whose karma?”
(The bell lamented, amidst Buddhist chants—
delusion’s poisonous sigh.)

“Flame flows, fire surges,”

“Ah—the dove’s nest!” said the girl—

Father said, “Does it burn—the nests of men?”

(The bell remained unshaken, amidst Buddhist chants—

the kalpa of destruction’s distress.)

“The Lion Seat of Flame proclaims through fire—
“I hear **the** golden mouth **of** **the** Tathagata!”
A person came running up**,** shouting**.**
(The bell trembled**,** amidst Buddhist chants—
**the** throes **of** illusion**.**)

“The fire comes from within—the Buddhist lamps,

“Is this the age of Dharma’s decline—the Buddha hall burns!” a voice cursed and slandered.

(The bell raged, with Buddhist chants—
Vairambha’s breath.)
“The fire has reached the bell tower,

“Now? Now?” cried a frenzied person—

“The bell’s sound burns,” said the girl.

(The bell died out with Buddhist chants—
the fear of Avīci.)

“Mother, where shall you abide starting tomorrow?”

“...shall you abide,” said the girl again—
Mother said, “The fierce fire subsided.”
(The bell remained, with Buddhist chants—
the dampness of desire’s flow.)
“Father, my dove burned away—the fire envies,” said the girl—
“The fire envies,” said the girl—
“There is no escape—pursue it,” said Father.
(The bell radiated, amidst Buddhist chants—
the agony of renunciation.)

Water's surface

An exceedingly small window
Day and night remained ceaselessly open,
The surface of water that had been parted
The mere wavering
Showed to the weary heart.
A stagnant marsh?
A great river? Or perhaps an inlet?
A fragment of the water’s surface,
Though knowing not what,
One gazed ceaselessly.
Pallidly shone
Wave patterns—the patterns warped and bent,
Flowed away, then folded over
The countless forms

Each and every one holds secret meaning.
Yet it is so,
I cannot comprehend anything,
By day I see, by night I contemplate,
That boundlessness,
How long must I remain thus?
My soul
Set free—what I behold is sublime,

Neither heaven nor earth—
My soul merely drifted
Water’s surface—yesterday and today—
I sought to illuminate the world
Though even wonder failed to glitter—
Having waited—what was this—
My soul—?

The white swan was reflected upon the water—
O sorrowful bird—
O Sacrifice—do you not know?—the waves
Now became melted flame—
White wings
Would instantly burn away—
Listen—resound clearly!

The voice trembled, “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—
“Glory be” thus—
The lauded sacred hymns
To the anguish of the bird in its death throes.
I am thus.
When I fixed my gaze upon this state,
Still resounded: “Glory”—
Outside the window, outside—
When I gazed out, this must be heaven.
The evening sky?
The water’s surface—this must be heaven—
Upon buoyed Glory—

The stars blaze forth,
Yet how profoundly desolate!
I mock my own being -
What force has betrayed me?

A dark room, a small window,

Wearied into dreaming,

Faith’s dream—that too is void.

Memories

(To him who predeceased his wife)

“Memories,” O pure oil in your hand,

Poured into the fire vessel and held aloft, the pure flame ascended—ah!—illuminating the visage of the departed. For my lord husband's sake, for the beloved child crying for mother's sake, you drew forth the fragrance of bygone days to light the window that grieved ever deeper for the soul that would not return. In that dimness, add a comforter—the Merciful-Eyed Lord surely praises this deed.

"O Memories," still unshadowed! From thy breast produce the golden key that would unlock the heart's deepest chambers—that token which never decays in sorrow—and offer it up with tones both crystalline clear and radiant.

High noon
High noon had come to pass, a presence barely there—
The languid breeze’s breath had ceased in the midday blaze—
Gazing toward the field, the shadow of a single bell,
Through the gap in the enclosure of the endlessly undulating hedge
The low-eaved rural house stood white and shone,
Back against the wall, the blind man leaned,
He turned his face to meet the day.
The traveling horse halted and pawed, the sound of hooves kicking earth—
Gently firming, the shining light—
They must be singing—how the interlude between songs grew long,
High noon lingered with resting legs in one place,

Lingering this way and that without any proper form to pass,

The thick hue of the sky settled heavily in the distance,

The unrelenting heat, bearing dreams, sweltered heavily.

Verses Composed During Rochette's Journey in Belgium

Sacred Lamp

In the deep midday along Flemish country lanes,

Passing by the timeworn small shrine,

Peering in—within the paintings hung in series,

The Holy Mother embraced the sleeping form of the Divine Child.

The girls tending sheep set their flock aside,

On this clear day of thanksgiving knelt there,

Indeed at day's twilight too knelt there,

Even while weeping over tragic karma yet remained there.

In night's depth along that road by that shrine's edge,

Passing its side—the sacred lamp faintly flickered,

Illuminated and mirrored the desolation of dharmic darkness,

Thus does life’s warmth cool, doubt smoldering in the breast—
When it kindles—to faith’s light devote yourself—
Trust that shadow—some extinguish, some refuse illumination.

Verses Composed During Rochette's Journey in Belgium

From the Rubáiyát

I

O Nisaba, O Babylon—though one dwell in the City of Flowers,

Be the cup we pour again sweet or bitter—

Without cease do they steep life's wine,

May life's leaves scatter—each single leaf.

Each dawn might hundreds of roses bloom,

Ah verily—yet where lies yesterday's rose-shadow?

Would the early summer moon make roses bloom? Yamshid,

The Revered Ones of Kaikobad alone spare not life.

Let those who must depart depart, O Great Revered One of Kaikobad,

Kaikosuru-hiko, be that as it may,

O stalwart Tsuaru and Rusutsumu—if you would boast, then boast,

Let King Hachimu hold his banquet—what of it?

To the meadow of pasture adjoining the fields—come, let us cross together,

Beyond that field lies a sandy plain ahead—there indeed,

The king—no discrimination for the eta—

Dwell in peace upon the golden seat, Maamudo.

Beneath a tree, a volume of songs,

Jugs of fine wine, mountains of provisions—and yet your

If only one were ever singing in yonder sandy plain,

Ah, the sandy plain too is a heaven.

II

Since first I began sowing seeds of wisdom in wise teachings

I have cultivated with my own hands—and so what?

If one should ask of the harvested sheaves at reaping time—it is only this—

“Like water I come; like wind I depart.”

Omaakaiamu

Fly

O fly, alas,
With these unfeeling hands of mine,
Your summer dalliance
I sweep aside as nuisance.
Might this be—I?
This fly-form mirroring your own,
Or you—could it be? Then again,
A human shape resembling even me.

I too danced and drank,

Though I sang, the final day—

The hand of darkness that made no distinction

Would brush away my wings.

Now I discerned.

Life itself, power itself—

Thoughtless indeed was the patternless.

Death exists—if this be so,
Then my body—
Ah, in this world, how fortunate is this fly!
To speak of living, to speak of dying,
Be it whichever it may.

——Bureeku

Mermaid Sea

“I saw the mysterious creature,” came from the inner bay,

The old sailor—“The mysterious creature!”—

Lord Takebe smiled.
"I saw it once when hidden by mist," said the old sailor melancholically as he gripped the helm.

“I saw it,” he said melancholically.

The old sailor grasping the helm's handle.

Lord Takebe smiled.

The old sailor spoke again: “That face—the beautiful woman’s features stood vivid, their fragrance overwhelming.”

The old sailor spoke again: “As for mermaids—

“Verily, if that be so—it must indeed be true—”

“I saw her but once, never to meet again.”

The ship swayed, the inner bay—

The fog wandered, lightless,

The setting sun tormented the autumn sea.

“Verily, it was so,” said the old sailor.
“That day too stood thus pallid,
The sea heaved a desolate sigh.”
“The gunwale trembled and quivered,”
The waves’ undulations frost-stained,
“Their hue dulled—and at that moment——”

Lord Takebe smiled.

The old sailor grasped the helm,

and muttered once more, “At that moment——”

Lord Takebe released his gaze.

As he looked seaward—in the old man’s hands

the familiar creak of the helm.

Now the ship labored heavily,

sinking and rotting between waves,

faltering yet feigning forward motion.

The old sailor too smiled—

an ill-omened hour in the inner bay—

Ah, people remain people, ships but ships.

Dreams of yore smiled on.—

“At that moment it came to pass—suddenly,

“The waves do not burn,” said the old sailor.

Then he spoke again, “The sea’s fragrance,

“The waves bloomed like flowers, serene,
The terrace of the setting sun shone.
“The waves drew together and sang anew,
Wrapped in flame-woven silk,
The song of pearls whispering low.
“At that moment it came to pass—before our very eyes,
The mermaid rose; waves burned bright,
Waves bloomed, waves sang.
“Golden scales steeped in indigo—”
Bathed in the tide, that visage—
“The mermaid’s countenance breathed beauty’s essence.”

Dreams of old had returned,—

A time of calamity was upon the inner bay—

Ah, time is time, and the sea is the sea.

“Her pupils are lapis lazuli,” said the old sailor.

“Breasts pure white; supple hands lifting wet hair—”

The supple hands lifting—

“Lord Takebe, it came to pass,”

When he spoke, Lord Takebe consented: “What I saw was indeed——”

Milord smiled. "Where?"

"Milord, here it is," said the old sailor.

When he opened his eyes—a tomb of fog,
Only the gray sea’s surface.
Dreams of old mocked—
“Where?” he had asked. “Here,” the old sailor pointed.
The old sailor’s hand quivered.

The ship had just now lowered its sails,
People remained unbound; the fog-bound sea,
Only the gray curtain remained.

“Indeed it came to pass,” said the old sailor,

“The ship—the clinging mist—the open sea—

The chest throbbing—today once more—”

He spoke again: “Ah! A whirlpool forms—

The fog had swallowed the mist,
“Milord, the sinking sun ignites the waves.”
Lord Takebe did not stir,
The sail—"Don’t look!" cried the old sailor—

The sail was dyed crimson.

“Don’t look!” cried the old sailor—

The mermaid suddenly surfaced

before Lord Takebe’s very eyes.

The waves split asunder and scattered,

the mermaid emerging drenched,

her profound fragrance hidden by the waves.

The mermaid’s voice—a skylark’s flute—

as waves playfully sang while approaching.

Long black hair—the fish’s shoulder—

her smile remained unfathomable.

The blue abyss of the sea, of that abyss—

The phantom of venomous pearls?
The mermaid smiled profoundly—
The abyss of love draws people in—
A smile that destroys them.
Lord Takebe turned resolutely toward the mysterious fish—
Stood glaring—the smile’s triumph—
The setting sun dyed the sails crimson.
Lord Takebe at the ship’s bow—
His blood froze—the sea’s surface now waves all ablaze.
With his half-bow drawn taut—
He nocked an arrow—the released shaft met resistance—
The mermaid’s voice.
Ah, the sea’s surface—all waves trembled and froze
At the ship’s bow as Lord Takebe’s blood burned.

The voice, thinned by grievous wounds, pierced clear—
Even as the mermaid sank—
Still she smiled—the fish of love.
Retribution was potent—invisible to the eye.
The shadow’s returning arrow—not being I—
Lord Takebe shouted, “Ah!”
The mermaid sank upon that surface.
Lord Takebe beheld his deceased wife’s
Smile—indeed before his very eyes.
The deceased wife’s smile, the mysterious fish’s eyes—
The mysterious fish’s lips—regret too fulfilled—
Now he would not reach beneath the waves.

Old dreams flickered,

The old dreams vanished into darkness;
The sun sank;
The waves raged and raved.

The whirl of the storm, the night sea—

The old sailor forlornly—
“Ships have ports where they dock.”
At the docking port, the ship docks,
Well then—after the savage dream,
Where, then, is the nest of the human heart?

From that day onward, Lord Takebe—
His heart adrift, two days passed—

He did not return to the inner bay.

The sword matches at the lord's manor,
The nightly banquets, the renown of name,
Lord Takebe abandoned and cast them away.
Two days having passed, that evening,

Lord Takebe stood towering—
Alone on the rock's crest.
Beneath the rock, the raging waves—
The eddies swirled and roared; he gazed down.
A whirling lapis lazuli dream.
No sails in sight—this evening,
The fog gathered, lightless.
The setting sun drifted over the inner bay.
To Lord Takebe appeared a phantom—the smiling face of his deceased wife; the voice of the mysterious fish.

The deceased wife's visage materialized—
her smiling face—the voice of the mysterious fish.
"The phantom realm is real!"—
Lord Takebe thus perceived it,
the voice pared thin by mortal wounds yet piercing clear.
Ah—the whirling! Even his eyes—ah!
His heart too lay pitiable—within the azure abyss,
the coiling vortex waves.
Lord Takebe cast off his mortal form and—
in that fleeting instant as he leapt into the depths—
"Father!" cried a voice through the wind.

Ah, pitiable was the body of Lord Takebe—
In the whirlpool of smiles,
phantom’s whirling waves and bubbles of dreams.
“Father!” she called out—the inner bay,

The old sailor heard that voice—
staying awake through the entire night listening.
At dawn,
when the Princess called "Father"
at the edge of the inner bay,
he trembled at her appearance.

“Princess! This old one nearly lost his soul,” he said, voice quaking, “mistaking you for that monstrous fish—”
“Ha... ha...” The old sailor’s lonely laughter faded as he muttered, “Princess... On that day when my boat—”

“Father was lured by the mermaid’s bewitchment—”
The Princess lamented, “Father was lured—”
“—lured by the smile of that face.”

“Princess, Lord Takebe’s arrow—”
“—made the mermaid sink. The night sea,”
the old sailor concluded, “and the storm-tossed ship...”

“The storm-tossed ship,” said the old sailor.

The Princess lamented, “Fame—”
“The sword tournament at the lord’s mansion—”
“Father renounced and wandered away.”
“Princess—this futile world of men—”

The old sailor muttered; the Princess again—
“Father lies at the sea’s floor where monstrous fish dwell.”

“Father!” she called countless times into the wind,
her voice growing ever weaker,
while the sea roared against jagged rocks.
“Mother!” she then attempted to cry,
but when “Mother” escaped her lips,
the sun sank into the sheltered bay.
Golden-scaled waves withdrew,
white-crested swells rose clamoring,
yearning toward her where she stood ashore.
Three times had he seen that mermaid’s form—

“Three times!” cried the old sailor.

When he faltered in guarding the Princess,

the shore’s glittering receding waves—

in their wake, the mermaid prostrated herself,

her voice piercingly clear through anguished grief.

The Princess gazed out at the mermaid,

The mermaid embraced Lord Takebe’s corpse
In both arms she held him close,
Drops of blood from her pure white chest—
Lord Takebe had loosed
The grievous wound from the arrowhead’s mark.
The mermaid, gently and sorrowfully,
She did not raise her face, though she grieved,
Still smiling—the fish of love.
At last, the mermaid breathed her last,
The Princess clung aimlessly to her deceased father’s
Corpse, weeping and sinking.
The high waves resounding along the shore—

Again came surging the old sailor,
“Alas!” he cried—but before the shout could fully form,
Lord Takebe’s corpse too,
The Princess too; the mermaid too; a phantom—
The sea’s depths where waves churned.
The old sailor from that day onward

went no more out to sea, repeating—“With these very eyes three times I saw the mermaid”—that was all he would say.

(Published January 1908)