Pathway to Japanese Literature

Why would one make a bed of cherry blossoms?

The spring bird's heart that does not nest among flowers!

Not nesting among flowers—is this too akin to a mouse's nest?

Bashō

Preface

In this collection, following my previous work *Lone String Elegy*, I included works from the summer of the 36th year through to the present year.

*Summer Festival* was the oldest, while *May Mists* was the most recent work.

To *Rusted Axe*, I appended an introductory note of several lines this time, briefly outlining its surface narrative.
At the time I published this work, I felt astonished that readers found it exceedingly difficult to comprehend.
Such an introduction was mere superfluity.
Moreover, this note did not extend beyond literal interpretation; I feared it might lapse into self-praise.

＊ ＊ ＊

The study of poetic forms may not escape the world’s censure.
If there already exist perceptions and thoughts regarding nature and life that differ from those of former days, then it becomes an inevitable necessity that their expression will require new methods.
As summer gradually approaches, one intends to cast off spring garments.
Yet old customs already dwell within my breast, and I detest this impulse to embrace the new.
The rapid current seen in one facet of reform arose from efforts to sever this attachment—efforts that had hastily strayed outward.
The pursuit of adapting to novel ideas in syllables, style, diction, and coined words—while endeavoring to relax the constraints of our national language to facilitate embodying modern subtleties—arises from an inexorable necessity.
That I should incur reproach for obscurity on account of this is something I have long been prepared to accept.

The senses such as sight and hearing must always remain vivid; they must preserve their vitality.
Otherwise, the heart stagnates, and beyond patching, beyond imitation, or beyond exhortation and clamor, literature would ultimately cease to exist.

“To know ‘nature’ is to know the ‘self.’”
For example, is “nature” the leopard’s spots, and “I” like the leopard’s pupils?
“Unless ‘nature’ is the pelt of a dead leopard, it cannot be vainly spread across banquet halls; unless ‘I’ am the cold eyes of another, I will never admit such desolate visions.”
“Living through ‘I’ and shining in ‘nature,’ a single spiritual leopard seeks to enter the garden of poetic heavens.”

Sight, hearing, and other senses intertwined and overlapped, mingling with modern human emotions; here existed a sound of silver light, here existed a color of clear resonance.

Though we speak of the mind’s eye and the mind’s ear, we can perceive the fragrance of the soul through the senses of smell and taste.
To denigrate smell and taste as lowly senses—is this not the utterance of those who know nothing of the senses’ piercing acuity?

At times, when all the senses grow weary and slumber, one may perceive something akin to the scent of an ancient bronze vase—buried for a thousand years in ruins—its hues of verdigris and deep blue.
At times, one perceives beauty by “seeing crimson and transforming it into azure.”

Without discerning a single flower, to compose poetry is folly.
To cling to passion yet not love the serene light of love is also folly.

In my literature there exists Sei Shōnagon among Heian court female writers—she meticulously captured newly received impressions and attained profound subtlety. In describing those May mountain villages where marsh waters stretched vividly blue before one’s eyes, passages such as “The fragrance lingering near an oxcart’s warped wheel overgrown with mugwort remains most delightful” possess an undying freshness of scent unmatched by decay. During Genroku times Bashō emerged; he imbued single verses with profound subtlety through refining mundanity into spiritual essence—this represents the most symbolic element in my literature. The white poppy stands as a flower of drizzling rain; ducks’ voices faintly whitened; bowing before my deceased mother’s white hair brought tears burning like autumn frost; someone spoke of seeking chinquapin flowers’ hearts; someone pointed toward tomorrow’s blossoms near these flowers themselves. To claim Zen meaning resides in “The Old Pond” or interpret moral admonishment within “Hibiscus” mixes jewels with fish eyes.

Lately, prose poetry has gained some recognition in literary circles, but most of what is produced amounts to nothing more than disjointed ornamental prose. Is what has been crafted by Baudelaire and Mallarmé truly of this nature? In my view, among superior haibun works there are those that in fact rival prose poetry; Sodō’s *The Theory of the Mantis* and its ilk must indeed be such examples.

My literature retains its vitality even as these classical texts and phrases endure. We do not permit ourselves to wallow in idle banality.

Ogyū Sorai said, “All eternal marvels lie within the banal; heaven cannot abandon warblers and flowers to create spring elsewhere”—though this statement was strikingly profound, it resembled mistaking nature’s abundance for scarcity.

He also said, “His character was obstinate; he did not follow the ancients, acted self-reliantly, delighted in gratifying his heart, detested decline, and shattered purity for dilution”—solemn phrases that likely exemplified such late-period rhetoric.
However, if today’s critics or self-proclaimed experts were to liken this statement to those attempting to pioneer new realms—what then?
That was due to their incidental failure to comprehend the budding of prosperity.
Prosperity was poised to surge forth like billowing clouds and soar.
We, fortunate to have met in this day, found it strange that so many of the old guard still clung to outdated views.

May 1905 (Meiji 38), Author’s Note

Sun’s fallen grains

Sun’s fallen grains, moon’s tricklings,

What remains—who would savor,

Spilled husks—who gathered them,

Thus does the world pass endlessly?

Ah, sorrow! The steps of day,

the lunar palace—the depths of its fragrance,

And so, is one about to tread?

Who could answer with ease?

Having passed by, I remain unknown to others.

A fleeting moment—those interstices,

Engraving light into darkness,

Though they perish without a sound,

the dew of this nurturing—that very dew—

Though it be the seed of beautiful rice—

Abandoning that, the revelation of fate:

To obtain the key by which stars reign—or so it is said.

The unknowable path of an instant.

Whither? Who could determine—

Sinking the sacrificial self into the abyss—

No matter how desperately one seeks—

Deep at the bottom, sealed with blackest dark—

Not even the shadow of a single flame shall I meet.

How it aches, to think of this—

May the scar of ancient dreams never fade—

O Eternity, bear upon your back these wings—

With colored wings, briefly veil—
At new life’s precipice,
Gather the overflowing dewdrops.

The soul that quietly awakens,
The soul that quietly awakens,
One day blooms as a fragrant flower,
Yet being a flower that sleeps at dusk,
Though no means exist to offer it,
You—whom I love—
For your eyes alone I bloom in yearning.

How does it unfurl—the soul’s
Though unknowing if it became a flower,
Emerging from this dawn’s waters,
Granted a day’s form,
This blossom vanishing in a single night’s

Its decree already lay beyond telling—ah.

Though there was a lofty platform,

Upon railings polished by light,

dangling helplessly,

the blue abyss of unfathomable depths

Through the night, carried by the waves,

Bloomed solely toward you.

Though it bloomed quietly,

the flower’s neck had bent,

Evening glow—small island, rock shadows.

Of the bird-prowed ship hoisting its colored sails—

Formless—desolately

Swaying yet upright—the flower’s nature.

In an ancient generation—the divine earth’s

When it still burned as flame,

Mother’s shell from the sea of flames,

Within the shell’s twin leaves, a crystal gem—

That it had been birthed long ago—unknown to people.
A flower of the soul that resembled that as well.

Morning comes.

Morning came; soon the muddy river,
tepidly fragrant—the night’s membrane—
resembled being washed along.
On a white wall—
the market’s riverside row of storehouses—
Morning came, the damp river mist.

The river’s surface had already melted, white,

The shadow of the wall, swaying unsteadily,

Dawn breaks, the dark water’s depths remain.—

Ōkawa’s evening-pouring tide—

Force surges up muddy water.

Flowing—ah, a melon rind,

A seed, dust, straw.
――sakamizuki

Swirling and coalescing, the mist once more—

At times sealing a deep fragrance,

Vanishes, decaying into blueness.

This is a mud-daubed bridge pillar.

The water’s edge narrows—here are two—

Flower? Petals?—the songstress’s

Her faded form—creak creak—

As one crossed, the bridge planks lamented.

The final breath had labored so fiercely,

The soured, limply swaying muddy river’s

Mist in morning’s depths

Grew cold as it vanished—the seagull

Chased the rising tide and quickly devoured.

Turbid yet—water clad in algae—

Writhed in twisted patterns, churning green,

Lapis lazuli edges gleaming, jade-green stagnation,

And so crimson—the servant girl

Stood at the wharf—a woman’s obi—

Blue carts—several—and then,

Workers—those of labor’s—

Empty-handed—the swaying legs of loads,

Pushed poles at sterns and took rudders;
At the bow, a boatman drew out his song.

Morning came; shadows burst into color,
And so the day too shone upon the muddy river—
Morning came; already it had glistened.
The market’s riverside row of storehouses—

White wall—is this my heart?

Legacy Songs

Prelude――

This was from the long-ago height of spring—
Steeped in sorrow for all that decays—
In Princess Yuri’s summer court,
One of the legacy songs handed down.

Sternly he ruled the young grass fields’ edge,
This lord who governed the fledgling land,
With gold chiseled into the royal crown,
The throne arrayed in verdant hues.

To behold it was to see undiminished glory,
A palace of prideful luxury where even sunlight knew no decay.

The queen—her name was Sumire-hime—
Even among flower princesses,
Graceful and peerlessly pure,
That figure.
Ah, those bygone days—
Why did seasons’ turning moments…
The shifting dreams’ azure abyss,
Within its depths, the shadow of glory’s zenith
Swirl into oblivion’s vortex?

The spring field in its youth had fallen,
The Great King’s weighty crown too—
Stars gnawed by vermin grew tarnished—
When would the princess’s form become barren soil?
Where had she been interred and forgotten?

The lingering lapis lazuli foundations,
The jasper pillars too, day upon day,
Shattered and fell—fallen into silence.

Thorny path—now it was summer.

Though sunlight streamed forth,

“Alas, how dark… how wearisome,” she said,

Clutching a flameless candle in hand,

Ōhane wandered, worn down and ragged.

In the distance emerged a scentless figure—

Lips faded, weakened and stumbling—Odo Riko.

In those days they had been friends lost in joy,

Together in the music ministry,

Singing songs, plucking koto strings, dancing,

Praising the grand palace’s spring.

“The willow’s shade lies utterly decayed—

Even memories—will they too be laid waste?

Faintly have I heard—in the south—”

“Princess Lily’s court exists—
Ah, but in this weary body—
the path ahead lies so distant.
Taking up the kugo, the summer melody—
the strength of aged fingers—
how can we play with such brilliance?”――

Unable to endure the sorrow,
collapsing, pressing a hand to her chest,
sobbing—alas—Odo Riko.

Ōhane—how does it appear when viewed?

Her gaze, laden with sorrow,

“The Heavenly Sun too seems blinded,

The form of the bygone world—the flower’s

The railing—how like,

It does not manifest before one’s eyes—
this score steeped in violet kinship—
along the desperate shadowed path—
they would have sung, steeled though they were—

Disastrously tangled lay the jeweled cords.
Now stood revealed at last - midsummer's stage.
"Through dreams it seeps,
permeating hearts," they sang -

Ōhane's wingless form,
at dusk-cloaked misty crossroads,
hung her head adrift in sorrow,
then startled at night's small hours:

"Where in these fields
shall we meet dawn's light?"

When Ōhane said, “Where in the fields shall we greet the dawn?”
Odo Riko replied, “In this world’s sky, we shall never again see the dawn,”
and with these words,
they joined their voices and walked on hand in hand.
Suddenly they plunged into the night path,

They encountered the seal of the Gate of Darkness.

Calming their trembling hearts,
Groping the towering gate,
“The summer castle we heard in Princess Lily’s song—
Is the summer castle here?” they asked.

Though their voices quivered in bewildered wonder,

Not even echoes reached the true darkness.

Desolation—if one were to liken this,

the shadow-blue corpse of the moon

the hearse that carried

Like water, swirling and drifting,
Neither floating nor sinking,

It resembled that which fades away.
After a short while, the black iron door’s
gap parted and a thing did appear,

Two women stood motionless.

Raising their slender arms, at this moment—
Aimlessly, being lured closer,
This was in the past—an evening of revelry,

A haze-burning agate incense burner.

After a short while, the shadows gleamed,
In the flicker of their fanning gaze,
In that fleeting instant, an aura rose.
A princess of pure-limbed elegance—
Opulent breasts resting upon her chest,
Delicate shoulders, skin pure white,
The sunlight gathered here,
Her lips, imbued with fragrance, quivered,
Her gaze was fixed on the shadowed forest.
Resembling the gleam of leopard’s spots—
Divine, her standing figure.
“Princess Lily? Or the lord of the summer court?” They drew near together.
“Lord of the summer court?” They drew near together.
They kissed the soil where the princess trod,
They did not forget even their weary bodies.

The wind from between mountains near the sea
A wind rising carried the memory of fragrance—
A song’s voice—could that be it?—was heard—

“O warrior, row swiftly back,”

Beyond the sea, the small island’s true cave,

The hands of white waves that pull you,

“This world is not entirely gone.’”

The oar struck the tide, intermittent—

Masurao raised his voice,

“O young maidens, endure and wait,”

Hearing the distant sound that would answer,

Ōhane’s very soul wandered,

Odo Riko was bewildered, wondering if it was a dream,
Their eyes dazzled, their stiffened bodies—
At the very moment when the door of darkness trembled,
Ah, here the phantoms vanished,
The barrier of the desolate gate
Opened at the sound of thunder.

“Land of Yomi, Naraku’s great citadel—

‘The King of Yomi now summons us.’

The gatekeeper thundered his reproach,

and thus indeed did the two shadows

sink away eternally—

no song remaining, no lament left—

into a world without spring or summer.”

May mist

One by one, you too had to see—
Each iris leaf at its tip
Where dew clung quivering
(Ah—the creak of a door being touched)
Those jeweled drops one by one
Sparkled scattering
While water bubbles clung to floating algae
(The screech of that creak)
Water stagnated beneath May mist
A withered morning where soul and body—
Was this flesh mine? That spirit yours? Truly?

(The creak resonated, smoothly.)

Water plants that had forgotten water—

Was it a flower—you—truly glimpsed?
The love-flower that had forsaken love itself.
(Look—the creaking door’s silver sheen.)
A hand clutched—not my own—
At leopard’s spots I’d long admired—
Who carved these marks upon its shoulder?
(The creak coiled round flame-flickers.)
Mystery-forest’s depth-stained blue—
Eternal shade? No—May mist lingered.

The fading water’s edge—you and I.

(Listen to the creak of iron.)

Each iris leaf bore dew—

Ask now, you too, for my name—

Your eyes—ah, your name.

(Ah, the sound of the creaking door fading away.)

“Master of Tonight”

The renowned vessel “Master of Tonight” is an ancient bronze vase treasured in a friend’s home.

An ancient flower vase,
The dew of the flowers dripped quietly,
green-hued ancient bronze—
The patina—how exquisite!
If I were to liken it—the desolation of

the valley’s depths—there it hung,
An evening moon that would never bloom—
Is that azure petal—?
An ancient flower vase,
In flowers, indeed, lay the four seasons,
In humans, indeed, the glory of their prime—
Glory darkened into decline.

The world of humans—ah, this—
The flower vase of “Fate,”
There it withered,
Fragrance lingering day after day and night after night.
Joy’s droplets, sorrow’s droplets—
Trickled and clung together,
Leaving traces upon its weight—
Behold now—even a trace.

Exceedingly ancient flower vase,
The soul of flowers dwelling—
Whom does it invite, “Master of Tonight”—
“Master of Tonight”—ah, guest.

My thoughts—
My thoughts—grime or calcified residue,
Ash of earth, ten days’ drought—
Dusty road of the lowly folk,
Sweltering crossroads at midday,
Throats parched, ankles charred black—
It resembled a faltering state.

By chance, they stepped aside to one side,

From the dragon-headed spout of the Well of Trust—still—
they received moisture from the gushing water,
and washed their bare feet and heels clean.

――

At such times—ah—once more,

What comes to mind is my small self—
losing strength, the flame of life flares once more—

Revived, I stood upon the straight path—

Slightly propped up—a rustling fragrance.

What comes to mind—be that as it may—further,

The great power of remorse—

The wings stroking my back gleamed—
those wings wrought of stone-floss,
flint carved into their bones—
as they calmly turned their eyes,
High Heaven’s First Day’s Bird.
Thus did my life increase;
earth’s defilement—what of the scorpion?—
To liken it: this lowly thing—
the lamp’s oil dwindling,
yet when one drop blazed as flame,
its shadow—through eternity—wisdom and compassion—
the wondrous majesty shielding Immeasurable Light—
Majesty!
—In that sacred water-drawing,
when I looked up, even heaven stood
powerful, fierce, blindingly radiant—

When I closed my eyes and inhaled the light,

a drunken sensation—the auspicious spirit’s

Mitamira’s hymn of praise—

I heard them rise in succession.

Here, the delicate flowers’…

It was the sorrow of withering—and yet,

Weariness—an exquisite cup.

A day when it slips from the grasping hand—

"Just grant it, Princess Manatsu Maya—

A single leaf from the Ashoka tree’s branch,
Holding it up to the path of light.
Farewell, now, to this unfamiliar threshold.
Ginkgo tree

Surpassing all trees—
O Ginkgo tree, maddening one—
North wind, tremble its leaves,

You stretched your branches—only to the north.

The Ginkgo tree bore down upon the north.

Southern fortress.
—Ah,

Among all trees,

The present day belittled the form of bygone ages.

Delicate blooms in the flower chamber—

The weak had perished, there—

the small ones crowded—

Do you know the clamor? Indeed, your heavens soared.

O Ginkgo tree—(my heart throbbed—

my chest.) The lamp’s

Flickering—scoffing at its wavering,

Alone—or was it the wax’s fragrant flame I inhaled?

In the primal wave of kalpa’s dawn—a single strand—

Majestic ocean’s

From the branch, shell-like leaves’

Was that the shattered one—the destination of your fallen leaves?

When I reflected, all grew still.

When scattering, when standing,

When I reflected—your trunk,

The giant elephant’s slumber in that afterworld.

Your form is of your own making.
Reaching the depths, you revive once more,
You revive on your day

midsummer—the white swan’s song shall lament.

Harbor entrance

Waves heaving at the bay’s midpoint.

Wilting sails’ deep fluttering,
Ah, the listless sight—the great ship,
Powerless wings hang limp.

Leaving the small island of eternal summer,

Countless hardships, countless days, Watazumi—

Sailor does not now raise eyes,

this accursed harbor entrance.

Splendid, pile up—pearls,
The wings of a mysterious bird—or perhaps,
Fruits rich in fragrance—sandalwood—
Nay—even more so, thus melancholic.
Heavenly beings’ food—in this bitter world—
The utterly dark guise of this day.
The boat of life meant to be adorned—
Mahora—ah—panted and fluttered.
The inlet’s waves, turbid at their depths, darkened—
The channel’s voice grew wan and pale,
The obsidian stone can be polished.

May the futile arrow fly—now.
The light that was brought was cast aside,
Mahora and the sailors struggling to surge—
Where now lay the ship that had moored—
Dazzling darkness’s depths—

Fetters

To condemn the fetter-person—or even black iron—

If made to shine like gold, upon that chain,
Like the stars of that heaven-racing palace path,
Bound and proceeding, they shook the wondrous-sounding world.
White clay that obstructed carnal love, or—
Ah, yet another impurity nurturing the buds of sin—that was—
When purity and youthful passion were heaped high,

The spirit’s hand shall praise this sunlit ceremonial cup.

In such a world, in such a state—we two,

Do not delight in what cannot be sustained again.

Taika Shōu—by chance—pulled out from the shoulder,

Truly, in the kiss you returned—
I, chalcedony, congealed and buried in bedrock,
imperceptibly melted into the light and flowed out.

I shall pour myself into this.

Unglazed—ah, my life—a light small jar,

Whose hand has placed it here, turning it over—when I imagine,

From the idle hands of Haniyasu-hime of ancient times—

On a summer day, one day, by the southern mountain,

The artifact of a crafted haniwa jar—was that not it?

Again I saw—the princess’s little finger’s mark, floral whorls—

Like a love newly received yesterday

The radiance floated up, transparent upon the surface, drifting.

If joy still existed now, I would pour it into this—

Eight thousand years had already passed—the starry moonlit night’s

The brief evening banquet had already passed—

The Divine Princess once tasted that brewed sake,

At the height of that fragrance—ah—this life of…

(It is empty.) And so, parched and drying, it might begin to chip away.

Autumn

Dusk—"Autumn" paused briefly, gentle—
She raised her eyes, even a smile surfacing, when resting—

A dove—graceful—from the water basin on one side.

Jeweled water—occasionally beating wings, so faintly.

“Ah, Princess—stairs—the stone’s dream startled into motion.

How fragrant—as one misstepped on the hem and supported oneself—”

“At the moment hands release—look from the zither’s surface—

May the phantasmal elephant illuminate—seven flowers.”

This feeling I harbor—to others, now—

How can I ever fully convey this?

Clouds gradually—
Illumined in gold—above the grove of hinoki cypress.
The Princess’s singing voice drifted.
The wind fanned—
When droplets fell from dense foliage, they formed a blue abyss.
The earth’s rainbow ring, stained, swayed into being.
How joyful! Yet...

Today of all days—how exceedingly joyful! Were I to have you—
My eyes too—truly like Minazuki’s yellow stone—
Though I burned so fiercely—now drenched and saturated—
Ah! This joy—the fragrance rising from your breast.

Even dreams folded their wings modestly—
When she stood on the shore where blue waves bloomed with flowers,
The glittering sea of hope—the scallop’s—
Hoisting sails, the two must have been heading out to sea together.

How joyful! Yet how sorrowful—the hour of burial.

The scent of lit wax smoldered restlessly—

The ritual cymbals beckoned.
Now at last I would tell you—

Yesterday’s Envy had not perished—its remains—

The Love I sent off was a companion of tears—ah,

Look—the black robe. To wear it was a monk’s duty.

Monk “Impurity”

*Thought* traversed the thorny path—now—
Though I had called upon what lay buried in parched soil,
All I heard was the ominous marsh water dwindled and tilted,
In the dark valley of pit vipers, the stream surged onward—
A clamor of jostling overflowed—soon to be heard again—
From the night forest’s shade where a transient’s voice sounded—
The bonfire’s flames—pecking at branches—were extinguished and gone.
The mournful cry of the celestial bird that came dancing—
When I heard this too, a strange *thought* dwelt within me.
It lodged and slept—when buried, if one strained their ears—

Tormented—I, Monk “Impurity” guarding the gate—
The anchored Golden Hall of Love crumbled here—
Envy! Regret! Cinnabar rain—lapis storm—
This sudden conflagration of love—was this Aranya?
I offered to you—
A vanishing shadow lingered; briefly—the high koto of day—
All too soon—let the sound sending off spirits resound—
Beneath trees among delicate grasses—along shore flowers—
In my world—once more—I longed to summon form—
Even so—discarding Satsuki’s full-flowered attire—
The heaven-bound shadow of a delicate woman—this being the end—

The palace of true love—its new garden keeper,

Your glance—pearls sinking into light.

With memories like leopard spots pressed—

“Bring forth ‘Heart’—this incense burner I offer to you—”

That—how many tears will turn it blue—

If people see it and still call it a vessel of joy,

I set down pure white “Life,” and your eyes

While my illuminated body burns—I shall be.

In the degenerate age,
In the degenerate age—the crystal that parted from Buddha,
This gem congealed in the resin of scorching sands,
All golden dust danced upward,
Shone; then, without a sound, the aura vanished.
Nested in a small box of hues, in musk’s fragrance,
O paired swallows that nestled close and slept entwined,

I had grown weary of southern dreams—the northern capital
sought to cling to the raven tresses of this fickle world—
Maidens, damsels—here glory was brief,
while your shining wings grazed and darted about—
the fading echoes of our first night’s resentment lingered.
Ah—those flirtatious days of love were summer’s pavilion—
to see them half-grown, tilting and sinking—

Ah, fleeting—your nest too falls with people.

People being people,

My self begins to grow distant,

Though it circles beyond my grasp,

Stars—the starry path of the sky,
The pigeon walks a pigeon-shaped circuit.
The pigeon tilts its neck,
When lifting its neck even higher,
Brushing away the beckoning hand—
Like white wings being stroked.

Even so coquettishly—the domestic pigeon’s

The pigeon nodded its head ever so slightly—that manner,
If only it would shift even a single wing,
Now beneath the palm—the palace above.
The wings of a heart aflame,
That was not it—the pure-white-winged—
Ah now Princess—it took flight,
That pure-white-winged pigeon of yours.
I offered and pondered—upon the water basin,
This was the divine water that would overflow—
Birds being birds preen their feathers,
People being people think of things.

Princess’s Song

This song takes its material from a chapter titled “The Fairy of the Fountain” in “Miths and Song from South Pucific” [Myths and Songs from the South Pacific Islands], compiled by Mr. W. W. Gill.
It is a Rarotongan legend.
The spring was named Vaitipi.
After the full moon, a water spirit woman emerged from this spring to play beneath coconut and banana fronds; one night, Chief Ati ordered his men as if capturing a bird and had her abducted.
The woman became pregnant through this.
In anguish, she said, “Cut open my abdomen to remove the child, then bury my corpse in the earth.”
She had already given birth.
She also declared, “When a child is conceived in the human world, all mothers of the water realm will perish.”

After this, Ati took the woman’s hand and tried to descend to the spring’s depths together, but could not.
They were parted forever from the water spirit woman.

This song of mine depicted the king of the southern land attempting to descend to the spring with the water spirit woman—an event that had occurred before she gave birth to her child, during the agonizing time of her full-term pregnancy.

“Where are you stealing away to?”

Ōashi-bi of the Southern Palace

Lost in wandering and unable to endure his grief,

He took Tama-hime’s hand into his hand.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—

the moment of lamenting, the moment of vanishing.)

“Where are you stealing away to now?”

King of the land where great coconut trees thrive,

Though he was king of the southern land,
now the grass of the labyrinthine garden—
(Ah, ephemeral foam—
the floating instant, the paining instant.)

The princess descended one step of the black ebony stairs.
She descended one step and hesitated,
When she looked up at the Great Lord and hesitated,
The sun etched the fragrant wood door.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
(though she hesitates, though she lingers.)
In the princess’s discarded sandals
Crystalline dewdrops danced—yellow-winged butterfly—
The coolness of her bare feet
A white lotus bloomed fragrantly upon a lapis lazuli pedestal.)

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

whether it is fragrant, whether it is cast away.)

“Will you not answer?” said Ōashi-bi.

When he restrained the Princess and pressed his question,

the radiant bloom that emerged—

the Princess’s soft neck hung.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—

When he pressed his question, when she hung her head.)

“Especially the Princess’s body, heavy with child—where do you steal away alone?”

When he pressed her, those dark eyes—
In their depths, fire blazed.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
The moment of blazing, the moment of accusation.)

“How do you hold that vow we made in that profound year’s depth—
Princess?” said the king.

“Now I shall speak,” said the Princess.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
Now is the time—farewell indeed.)

Upon the golden hook hung the Dragon King’s bells—
suspended high—

The king took hold of the bell ropes,

“Now I shall speak,” said the Princess.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

(To speak—and yet again.)

As the princess sank, overwhelmed with emotion,
The bell became the color of a soundless sea,
The Dragon Palace’s lamplight rose,
Carved a girl’s form and emerged.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
Surfacing, sinking away.)

If one were to strike the bell,
Before the stairs—the halberd’s flower—
Tama-hime prostrated herself at the king’s hem,

Thrice she declared, “Now I shall speak.”
(Ah, ephemeral foam—
Sobs, thrice it comes.)
The incense burner’s lion-shaped beast urged—

The Princess emerged, “In your hand—”

“Adding my hand to yours, I lit—”

“Sandalwood incense, agarwood incense.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

“(Hand to hand, incense to incense.)”

The Princess spoke again: “Of the Great Palace’s splendor—who would ask about it?” she said—

Her voice was the night’s own, swaying where water lilies drift in the water.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

The night’s voice, the flowers’ voice.)

“Regretting, lamenting,” she spoke again.
“Lonely and alone, I shall return,” she said.

Puzzled by the cadence of her words,

The king said, “Where are you returning to?”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

(Lamenting, puzzling—)

“Bubbles that surged from water,

I sprouted from the spring’s depths,

You are the king of the southern land,

I have been a water spirit from the start.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—

Water spirit, water bubble.)

The Princess spoke again, “A year—

The previous night and this day—

On that night, you were young,

The banquet on the night of your enthronement.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

The previous night and this day.)

The king lamented, “Indeed it is so—the throne that prospered on that day.”

The Princess spoke again, “The lamp oil burned—the banquet where beeswax candles blazed.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
The night’s banquet, the day’s throne—)

And thus before the king,
“Ah—love and desire—prideful revelry—
that night lured my very self—”

The Princess spoke, kneeling.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

(Love and desire, prideful revelry.)

The Princess spoke again: “Of the Great Palace’s
In that midnight brimming with light,
I, a maiden who emerged from the spring,

“I prayed to Joyful Celestial Maiden,” she said.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

From prayer, from the spring—)

Behold—now, the Princess kneels.

Shadows graced the robe’s intricate patterns,
The betel palm tree bowed low, purple-gold feathers—
An azure-breasted bird with a drooping tail.
(Ah, ephemeral foam—
Shadow’s freshness, bird’s patterned plumes—)

The Princess spoke again: “That night passed—

On the morning after seven days had passed,
the king who conducted the imperial hunt
“You beheld me at the spring.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
That night passed, seven days passed—)
“At that time—you of silver—
You took my bow and followed.”
“Ah, from that day within the palace——
This body has always been a water spirit.”
(Ah, ephemeral foam—
Lured, followed.)

The Princess spoke again: “In the night sky—
Hung like the moon swelling to fullness,
A year of steep stair-steps—
The womb-moon has come to term.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
whether it waxes or wanes.)

Suddenly, the Princess startled—
Even as it waxed, did the gestational moon persist—
The voice of the malediction from the spring’s depths:
“There is not a single day I do not hear it,” she said.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
That curse, this sorrow.)

“The laws of the Water Realm—”
“Having come to the human world—I who bore a human child—”
“When I give birth to one child, a thousand of my kin shall perish in the watery depths.”

“A thousand [of my kin] shall perish in the water’s depths.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—

A thousand, perhaps—or one?)

The Princess whispered, “If the blood of the thousand children’s

Water Realm cries out,

Night—the wheel of night grinds down and crashes,

and day—the axis of day breaks and decays.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—

They collapse and decay, grind down and fall.)

The Princess spoke again: “And so to the water’s depths—

“I shall return and commit no further sin,” she said.

In the wake of those words—

The King said, “I shall accompany you.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

Not to repeat, not to part.)

Ōashi-bi of the Southern Land

Ōashi-bi took Tama-hime’s hand in his,

The two of them stole along the ebony—

They finally descended the steps.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

(Took hands and descended.)

Lilies mottled with purple,

The flowers were the sign at the spring’s gate,

The two stole along and arrived,

The two peered into the water realm.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,
Water Realm, Love’s Garden.)

The King tasted the bubbling water,

“Now, let us bear this water together—”

Let us bear it to the water’s depths—

“Now is the time to abandon the throne of day.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—

A fleeting moment—to share.)

Delicate shoulders pale—love’s fish,

The Princess pushed aside the robe—

The shimmer of the robe’s patterns—

A peacock boat sailed through the agate sea.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

Peacock boat, love’s fish.)

Suddenly, the blue expanse of water and sky—

The King’s body too sank down—

The King opened his closed eyes,

Once caught sight of the Princess’s form.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

Is it the Princess? Is it a bubble?)

The King took that hand—

The spring swayed gently as it welled up,

The Princess’s bosom too—just like—

Shattered and scattered lay the mica clouds.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—,

Well up, shatter and scatter.)

The King’s eyes were dazzled in that moment,
He felt himself tumbling away—
Now again he emerged from deep water.

In his ears, he discerned the Princess’s voice.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
The Princess’s voice, deep water.)

Emerging at the mouth of the spring,
Parting the awakened king’s hair,
The Princess emerged—“Alas—
You are unaccustomed to water, my lord.”

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
Unaccustomed state—the king’s hair.)

The Princess spoke again: “The water’s depths—
The water maiden’s starry moonlit night,
May the sun’s proud revelry be yours,
Come—” she began, and smiled.

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
That smile, this wish.)

The Princess smiled gently as she descended,

In the King's eyes gazing alone,

The crescent moon shaped from ivory,

Like a sinking water's sky—

(Ah, ephemeral foam—
the time of lamenting, the time of vanishing.)

Green shadow

The woman sang—

What I thought was a green shadow—

The shadow of self-wrought anguish.

To speak of resting on Aono’s journey—

The day plunged into the darkness of weariness.
The spring resounded—silver—
Though likened to a cup that beckoned and drew—
The fleeting coolness of the field—
The heavenly skies too—thorns of the underworld.

Enveloped in weariness and anguish—

Leaving the green shadow far behind,
Only your palm’s
Entered into that shadow and drifted away.
Dream flower
The woman sang—
The stringed koto was now but a name,
What played was the cultivated little finger,

When they plucked what they had cultivated, mysteriously—
Upon the koto bridge hung a dream blossom.
They plucked, yet there was no sound, no melody—
Ah, even this had its logic—

Having become a century-old paulownia koto,
The koto decayed into tonight’s earth.

Century-old earth, twenty years’—
If they had filled it with sorrow—
Here, the moisture of my eyes—
Transferring it, will a dream flower bloom?

Joy—that of days past—
flowed away with green waves,
the flowers and grasses that grew on the stringed koto’s
tonight’s fleeting fragrance could not endure.
Was it the turbulence of dreams—or a phantom’s
illusion? Reality—cultivation—
what they saw—the little finger’s lingering trace—or
ah, a century—or twenty years?

“The melody you play tonight—”
“Why has it come to this?” someone said,
a questioner pressing down on a shoulder,
questioners taking a hand—
“The melody I play tonight—”
with the fragrance of the decaying koto,
the visage of a mysterious flower—

“I saw,” but how indeed could I answer?

Winter daphne.

Lustrous night’s black hair—

Under the moon, flickering and fading away—

Winter daphne spilled its fragrance—
Still shrouded was the flower flute in secrecy.
The hazy shadow flickered,
Upon the skin settled the sound of something—
Like the undulations of waves—swell after swell—
Spring rowed a dream-drenched skiff.
Illuminated not, melted not—heaven and earth
The banquet was dimly moistened,
Upon the moon floated a lunar halo—
Ah, the new wife’s new chamber.
The wind upon monra’s floating weave—
The pattern of people and grass dancing—
Faintly reflected were flower figures,
Weak shoulders, indeterminate as that.

In the sanctuary where candle flames smoldered,

heavenly women enshrined as though—

In spring, tonight, the maiden

would offer up her honorable name.

Only love knew the deep night’s

prayer—golden-pigmented through eternity—

the truth of the world unfading on dark blue paper—

the fleeting heart never to be rent asunder.

It had been but a fleeting moment.

Noble figure—venerable,
White robe faintly—
Ah, this withered vision now—

Is this fragrance the princess’s—the white-jade flower’s?
The flower’s scent drifted faintly—
white glass deeply enveloping—

The candle—in that hand,
Inexhaustible oil chalcedony,
The inextinguishable flame ruby,

Perhaps this was it.

Dreams were light—ceaselessly,

Phantoms stirred,

What was this—here in green,

Stars—or a peacock dancing forth,

Luring myself—

"O noble Princess, for but a moment—

The candle in that hand,

Shield it briefly."

——Ah, in this world,

"My body—this life cannot be saved."

Dust, mud, and water bubbles.

A smile, light, phantoms,
“Time’s gamboling,”
It had been but a fleeting moment—even this,
In time, true darkness settled in—
The white robe faded away.

Fate.

If this be no gate of flowers—the door of the chest,

Yellow wings beating, blue-green dew—

The trickling interval—midnight, midday,

A dream? Or flowers?—I knew at once.

Within that garden, the stone figure’s

The figure—I.

The sun—a pearl from Akoya’s shell—

The brilliance one might mistake for that—

The glow of dawn spread across flowers and grasses—

Waves and spray—how was it that—

Such emptiness filled the stone figure’s

Eyes, gaze.

Engraving the stone that formed the pedestal,

Looking—each pure white stone—

The princess deity—the dragon’s divine chariot—

Gallop forth, I bid you!

Ah, whose craftsmanship—the stone figure’s

Thus was the divine seat—

Now, the dragon’s wings bent,

Now, before the divine chariot—bowed—

The princess deity fell backward—

To the right, to the left, eyes bewildered,

Madness, the heart of the stone figure—

In shadow at that moment.

At that moment, even more so—the flowers and grasses,

Not in disarray like waves—around the eyes.

A faint storm rolled and tumbled,

As it went—ah, how heartrendingly sorrowful,

My soul tormented, the stone figure’s—

By dint of strangeness.

The heart was tethered there,

The body sank—a star of clay.

the illusionist Yasueshi’s phantom throne—

Helplessly, I listened—

The stone figure decaying in light’s

booklouse of ‘Moment’.

The muffled shell transformed,

the future’s veiled wings—

Bird Constellation, how distant.
——Midnight, midday,

phantom—the sorrowful world of dreams,

Ah, unbreakable—the stone figure’s
The prison it reigns over—

Amari Risu

In the water basin,

To receive the sweet dew,

Your smile

The day it blooms as a flower.

A heat simmered in my chest.

The glow caught the eye,

Your smile

Midday radiated.

How strange,

Brilliantly, the water lily’s

Night perfumes,

It is not akin to dust.

My love’s

Even if, again—(Sakae’s

(Ah, ancient ruins!)

Though it becomes a desolate field,

My heart

Here, still, a pure

water basin’s

The flower’s dew would gather.

Beside summer

Flowers and Amari Risu,

Your smile—
the day it blooms as a flower.

Summer’s water plants grow verdant—the summer river’s
(Is this apparition shadow or dream?)

Deep within the water’s veil,
the princess’s hair ripples and spills.

Midday’s blue shore—unwavering—
(Is this apparition the true mirror?)

Praying without blinking once,
prostrate and gaze at the water’s surface.

What princess could this be, lingering through the day,
(Is this specter truly a specter?)
What princess's slender hair—
The other side of that face—how one longs to see it.

The voices of the river waves, the voices of the water,

(Was this apparition's nature fragility?)

Voices spilled over in jeering laughter,

"The flower's face remains unseen."

Water plants swayed, the summer river's

(Was this the apparition's very wish?)

The water's veil lay unobstructed,

Someday revealing that pure visage.

The princess's black hair lingered through the day,

(Was this the apparition's very power?)

Vanished like a dream to the farthest end,

The princess's eyes steeped in fragrance!

Well then, the Lapis Palace’s revelry—

(Is this the very end of the apparition?)

Drawn by the princess, eternal summer—

A single drop from the lily’s spring.

Dream maiden

Dream maiden, eternal maiden’s

Lead me with your pure white hands,

I shall not ask eternity your name,

Wherever it might be—accompany me.

Dream Maiden—far from eternity—

Your hand—I to the left,

To the right—a flower.—The gleaming lapis lazuli’s

Go wrapped in flowers’ shadows.

Ten years were rainbows—a thousand years—this—

Flames swirled through time’s rapids—

Dream Maiden of bygone ages—

Ah—why did she dance so radiantly?

Life’s bud—in that flickering flame—

Young leaves’ longing clung to rainbows—

O this fleeting moment’s delight—

To think today—once more—I would see it—

Dream Maiden—Princess of Fragrance—

Her black hair, like the wind,
Those eyes, too, with such tranquility—
The aura of those colored birds at play……
Dream Maiden—ah, so be it—
Return me to the world once more,
the hollow void of your breast

Shall I live in the waking world?
In ancient ruins too—the small grasses of darkness—
Do you know—if one were to embrace their roots—
May the agate marrow melt away—
Here alone—a life exists—
Dream maiden—into the waking world—

Even now, the princess of the waking world,

Behold, in awe—overflowing with summer,

On the true day when autumn settles.

The sea’s bounty

(Aoki Shigeru’s work)

The ferocious giant beast’s fangs, the resonance of horns—

(Now colors rose in sound.) No—the tide’s

overflowing power’s wingbeats—and yet, as if—

the traces of things born from nature’s imperishability.

Fishermen’s sturdy shoulders labored unceasing,

their chest muscles bulging, voices brimming with pride—

Oh, the joy! By chance their figures—

Their figures resembled stars newly emerged from the heavenly furnace.

Their sea—an eternal lapis lazuli sanctuary—
Watatsumi ruled the boundary.
Thus, this day—

In each hand grasping skillful harpoons, the divine kin,

A giant shark exceeding height twisted and writhed!
With the azure light of its belly borne on its back,
Where did it ascend—to the primal sandy shore at the kalpa’s dawn?

Dedicated to the Kotentenkai

Fine wine and smiles mingled their fragrances,

From the jar, and from its surface too, it overflowed.

What was raised was a glass goblet—and not only that—

Carved and inlaid with palaces where the sun of art shines,

the pure white skin and radiant figure

Floating, a high-footed tray wondrous in the world—

In thought—even if it lay within a single night’s gathering—
Such was the joy—how it intoxicated people!
When graceful maidens endured, the gardens of Paris—
When undecaying light spread across the empyrean and pursued,

Ah, nostalgia—the journey through Italy, the monastery walls.
A skiff of words, before I knew it, carried me along—
the tale shifting from dawn to dusk—
there was Seinu, steering, raising sails, descending.

36th Year, October

Therefore,

The sun has shone,
An air of feigned ignorance—
The sun now dances afloat among clouds,
So be it then.
An air of feigned ignorance—

Therefore, I love you.

The Shaga has bloomed,

An air of feigned ignorance—

Again, flowers have bloomed—the iris flowers,

O relentless one—you,
An air of feigned ignorance—
You—like this? You—why?
The Shaga already,
Again, iris flowers,
Already withered—June’s
May the lilies bloom—

An air of feigned ignorance—

You walk alone.

The lilies had bloomed—
An air of feigned ignorance—
The lilies were fragrant, their delicate shoulders—
Your stature—
A shadowed likeness of yours.
The lily of my garden.
You—why?
An air of feigned ignorance—
The lilies did not crumble, June’s—

Love—even as it fades,
Fleeting desire,
Fleeting day—I alone.

Night of the Soul

Before four o'clock in the afternoon—a golden winter day—shadows hung faintly. The bank's door now stood shut; the once-crowded people had already departed from this modern Sakaenomiya. Was this fate—the locked door? Someday, even life's door would... And so indeed came the end: an empty man bearing debt, his body faltering as he walked away from that departing visage. A golden sound rushed by—unconveyed—this was emptiness itself: a glittering hymn to wealth, torment's mocking shore, the voice of shimmering waves. Behold—the golden characters in the ledger—

Stars are the scrolls of fate—

The scrolls made no sound.
Uniformity—a princess existed.
Comrades (I too)—

The futility of atonement—
the prison’s deep darkness

Ruins of death—how must it be,

Alas, that night of the soul.
Whose heart would not bow?
Smoke grew dull in the day,
Glistened, shadowed violet,
Did not flow; frost pressed
Like a bow deeply bent.
Smoldered smoke—the world’s
Depths’ breath crumbling away?
Swirled away into the beyond,
Aging, the yellow sun fell.
When the evening sky thickened,
Quietly, heavy, savage,
An empty cart through the streets
Did not resemble rolling away.

Behold—now sullied with soot.
Factories—many structures roar,
spines encircling—
Lo! That celestial radiance.
Through sacred power,

The earth roars, and steaming,
In the billowing steam,
May the radiant flowers linger here—

May such flowers linger—yet again,
Nonexistent in this world, the flickering light.

Abruptly leaking through the window,
The intense fragrance illuminated the beam’s fleeting instant.
Birds sang—Ah, the iron hammer’s—
Resound, O echo—the glimmer smolders.

Amidst it all—the battle’s
voice carved into breast flesh.

Who would pass by this place—
In departing moments, the heart remains unyielding—
A wound? It presses upon the flesh.
Is it for the path? For the august name?
38th Year, March

Roof grass

Roof grass dried in the drought,
Even as it dried, the neck drooped—
With eyes of leaftips devoid of dew,
Behold the burning—the wave of roof tiles.
Thus did the roof grass dry?
Summer—this city at its zenith,
Ridges and eaves, roof tiles and clay tiles,
People concealed themselves under the sweltering heat.
Those roof tiles glowed and gamboled,
These roof tiles scorched and smiled,
The human world in its shadow—now,
Wheels creaked, people rustled.

They merely writhed in agony; things decayed.
Only the fragrance—(thus, O celestial
(Let there be light) People—since when
The frail grass in the burial mound’s shadow
Had the roof grass dried at last?

Even if it dried—this golden
swathe of hair billowing full—
the crimson radiance faded away.

Three Translated Poems

○

Sweet sleep – O dark! O deep!
Enshroud now this body of mine –
Wishes bloom but briefly sweet –
Sweet too this ceaseless yearning’s chime!

Blindness claims me now entire –
Now ill-wrought and now made fair –
That shadow lingers – quenchless fire –
Ah! This dirge of dark despair!

As the suspended bed swayed gently, I—
Enclosed within the burial mound, it swayed—
Suppress even your rigidness, depart—
Loneliness merely yearned.
(Werureenu)

○

Hill, hedge—were one to cling and swiftly fly—
A rose-tinged stretch of green—
A pale yellow vehicle’s lamp—
Drowsy eyes blended all into one.

The dusk-deepened latter part of Tanimura

Gradually, the gold reddened—

The treetops spread evenly,
Birds sang in faint voices.
O beloved, gentle autumn—
Not sorrowful yet lovely—
My self wearied in this state of nothingness.

Swayed by the soft wind, I dream.
(Similarly)

○

Above the brow of the standing tree,

The moon gazed upon, blue,

Branch by branch,

A wavering melody…

A faint sigh…

Ah, this restless longing.

Two willow trees

Shed tears and lamented,

One in the breeze,

The other dwells in the river water's
mirror-dark depths……
We dream and are dreamed.
Of immeasurable

Nirvana.

Steadily falling—the white
night mist—the moon pours—

Where shadows lent their hues…

"Do not shift, O bewilderment of Time."

(Similarly)

Summer Festival

I

Surrounded by golden screens,

The festival viewing’s arrangements!

The painted patterns of the golden screens—
Kōrin-style patterns, flower-style patterns.
Flowers in purple—Japanese irises.
Water too in figured designs—a pair of mandarin ducks.
The grand stalls of the festival viewing—
A serenity where not even dust settled—
The beauty of the eaves’ edge—
Faces all assembled—the female guests—
Looking—variegated water plants of
Enticed by the festival’s waves—
A different grooming—
How pure, the maidens here—
This year’s fifteen in early summer—
Delicate brows of maidens—

Shoulders—their line, graceful—
The dancer’s pose—the sweep of hems.

On each occasion within the town—
Food stalls drew near the chamber of strings—
the footsteps of people merrily going—
In the bustle of the main street,
eyebrows slightly furrowed,
that air of feigned aversion.
Fifteenth early summer—black hair’s luster—
Did they disdain the town’s dust?
Flower-like faces turned away, rustling—
Were there not eyes drawing near in yearning—
Under the guise of fleeting diversion,
was there not even a moment to take hands?
With the ardor of youth in longing for you,
seven vied at the summer festival—
they longed for you in the neighboring town—
would I not even be counted among them?

A showy crowd bared their shoulders,
voices straining at the limit, hearts ablaze—
comparing those figures,
my thoughts proved unfit for love.

Longing for you—joy’s
flower hat I might someday don—
in midsummer’s sweltering crowds,
when I blended in and stood among them,

Unfortunately, the clamoring forefront of my heart—

The watchmen’s staves rumble and roar.

II

For example, your graceful figure—

Summer at the waterside—the iris flowers,
the remembered Great Edo of old—
The scent of water lingered long with you.
I too was a parishioner; you too were—
The same tutelary deity of our bond—
On encountering the day of the divine festival—
Two people taking hands—this bond.
Love was the shadow in my eyes' pupils,
Affection bloomed as your flower.
True midday—though we avoided others' gazes,
You would not disdain the night streets.
The strung-together paper lanterns'
A lavish display of swirling motifs.
A night path overflowing with lantern light,
Come, come—the path of the god of love.
In a single step accompanied by two,
The capital's soil would rejoice.

The verse the two will sing—
I would yield half to you.
Come, come—the path of the god of love,

In the lantern-lit shadows of night, with you I shall trace.

36th Year, June

Rusted Axe

(Husband: Isana, Wife: Tori)

The names “husband Isana” and “wife Tori” were nothing more than ones chosen for their affinity with the sea and mountains.
Isana was a man of the sea; in his youth, under the shade of a citrus tree, he yearned for a diving girl and killed her friend who stood as love’s rival.
Yet the girl’s heart did not turn toward him; she followed the deceased into the sea and drowned.
Isana wandered through the mountains from then on, until one stormy night, by chance, he formed a bond with the woman of the house where he had taken shelter.
This woman was his wife, Tori.
The coral and pearls—mementos of the sea—adorned Tori’s prayer beads.
He hid only the orange fruit and secretly buried it by the gate.
The orange tree had passed forty years since sprouting, yet it had never once bloomed or borne fruit.
This was akin to Isana’s heart.
The jealousy of Tori—who knew nothing of the sea—sprouted from this secret. A year into their marriage, she stole a glance at the cursed mirror Isana had brought. For the first time, she glimpsed sea waves and an orange tree within its depths. As the pale shadow gradually coalesced into the form of a young girl, she grew envious of her husband clasping the girl’s hand.
When a nun happened to come and take the mirror, the demonic shadow vanished, and she saw only a shaven-headed girl.
The nun spoke of the merits of confession.
Isana reached old age still holding the secret.
Declaring he would chew the orange tree, he took an axe in hand and faced Tori. As her husband tried to bring the axe down, his wife stopped him, urging, “Next year it will bear fruit—oh, do wait!”
At this moment, Isana revealed his innermost thoughts for the first time.
The white girl’s shadow abruptly blocked Tori’s vision, and she did not respond to her husband’s muttered words.
The axe descended, the orange tree stiffened from its roots, and Isana too drew his last breath.
The matter of this cursed mirror is based on legends from our land.
What the husband originally saw in the mirror’s depths was the visage of his deceased father.

The gnawing on fruit trees remains an ancient custom still practiced here and there to this day.

“Husband Isana, old man.”
“That’s it—the wife with a wrinkled, hooked beak—Tori—how you prattle on—”
“Husband Isana, old man—leave it be.”
“If that’s how it shall be—you Old Isana—climbing the sea slope where tides roar, gasping as white foam surges—”
“Aging provocateur—old man, is that it?”
“Tonight too, without even the veil of dusk—”

Ominously, a monstrous bird cried out,

"This deep mountain has not yet been exhausted—oh,

"Thick-beaked wife—you death crow!"

"Dead whale." "Oh, you old crow."

"Ah, my husband—how foul-mouthed you are!

Insulted—when I considered my youth,

"Words that have lost even the luster of days."

"Do you too yearn for days gone by,

"I am merely longing—for my homeland,

"The land of my parents, my mother's shore—"

"The boat of love? That alone cannot explain it."

“Still jealous—of the rudder’s pillow?”

“Ha, ha,” said husband Isana.

Wife Tori: “The years you—
“Tales of the sea, and tales of the shore.”

“The black water’s daylight lies stagnant,
The eerie will-o’-the-wisps of the decaying swamp’s night,
The wind that bends the mountain grasses—
“The wind does not know how far the shore’s scent spreads.”

“Husband Isana, since meeting you—”
Already forty years have we piled up—

“Tales of the sea, and tales of the shore—even I, who do not see the sea, have not grown weary.”
“How weary I have grown—oh, my heart’s…”
“…before I could plumb its depths.”
“You have said: ‘There, a ship…’”
“‘…with full sails raised, advancing while smiling.’”

“So it is.” “You also said—”
There, tide upon tide,
Ebb then flow again—morning and evening,
“The male waves pursue the female waves.”
“Indeed it is—and yet—” “Ah,”
This day indeed is my sea tale—

“You’ve heard it all before—you’ve grown weary of it,

That sea—
“There, again—”

Husband Isana now fell silent,
“There—the bird they call seagull—”
A swan reflects upon blue waves,
“A thousandfold waves, hundreds of thousands of seagulls.”
When husband Isana smiled faintly,
Wife Tori looked exceedingly proud,
“The golden Amida Nyorai’s
“Even the sutras I recite, my self,
“Though I may slacken again,

“If you call your husband’s Pure Land ‘the sea’—the lone sail of night tales, the broken wing’s—I have come to know every joint and crevice fully.”
“That very twisted-beak’s hollow chirping, Tori—O futile sky-song! Even the Pure Land’s Kalaviṅka bird would falter at your voice.”

“It would falter at your voice.”

“Do not say such things, my husband Isana—
Isana—man of the sea—the sea’s
splendid fish—the harpoon that strikes tuna—
in youth, you struck so fiercely—”
“That harpoon—shooting like stars—
even shot forth, that harpoon—Tori—”

Husband Isana and wife Tori gazed—

“How is that harpoon known?”

“You call it tuna—but,”

Today, the two have forgotten—

the unfruitful orange tree at the gate

“the one we said we would partake of—”

In husband Isana’s hand was a rusted axe,

On his withered arm, heavy,

He wavered—“Ah… just this one tree,

“The orange tree too is a memento of that day.”

“It bears no fruit—what kind of memento is this,”

“A vain dream?” “Now, now,”

“Oh wife Tori, do not peck at me so,

“Your mouth has aged and grown sharp.”

“Not bearing fruit—no, let us partake,

The orange tree—a memento of old times—

“You are the one who spoke it first.”

“Truly a memento—the seed from our old homeland.”

“You yourself are but a fleeting life—”

Before this life of yours ends—

To see the orange tree’s blossom bloom,

“The flower’s fragrance, hoping to see it bear fruit—”

“The orange tree never did bloom, ah,”

“Having left the seaside village for the mountain country—lamenting the valley’s fleeting sunlight—it has merely passed years like me.” Husband Isana continued speaking,

“On that day’s dawning when I first beheld thee,
The night I wandered lost to Tanimura village—
Lightning rent this mountain asunder.”
“My deceased mother always spoke thus: ——
The god of Thunder and Lightning Shrine
Would never harm others needlessly—
Divine wrath makes even cripples rise.”
“Fire raced, flames soared—
That night——” When Isana spoke,
Tori responded: “The bonds God tied—
This bond spans forty years.”
“At that time I hid three jewels—
Ah! The white was pearl——
Sea’s moon, the red was coral——
Sun and moon over ocean.”

“The moon of the sea—the red one is coral—
‘Is this the sun? The sea’s moon and sun.’

‘Truly, those two—
from your hand passed to mine,
even now, these Job’s tears seeds of prayer beads—
the sun and moon that illuminate the mountain’s fruit.’

‘One of them I kept hidden from you.’
He had buried it by this gate—
the orange tree’s unblooming jewel—
‘On the day it sprouted, I did not tell you first.’

‘Why, O husband Isana, did you conceal it?’
‘Did you hide it?’ ‘Alas, O wife Tori,’

What he buried was the secret of his heart,

“The grown tree bears no flowers.”

“Does it bear neither flowers nor fruit—”

“Husband Isana.” “Let us talk—”

The coming year’s sea of thick leaves,

Billows clinging to blossoming branches,

“Would that I knew the scattering fragrance—”

The seaside hedge’s presence,

“The light of sand washed by waves.”

Wife Tori listened and listened.

“O wife Tori, let us speak—”

“Raising the rusted axe in my hand,”
“when I strike at the orange tree’s roots,”
“Wait a moment—hold!” you said.
“When I ask why—”
“In the coming year，the flowers shall bloom—”
“when it shall without fail bear fruit，”

“Sooth the orange tree and say—’”

Tori narrowed her aged eyes,
Though her mouth contorted,
Isana took up the rusted axe—
Neither smiling nor blinking,
He raised it toward the orange tree—

The rusted axe—“Wait, I say—” his wife

Before Tori could even finish speaking—

Powerlessly, the husband’s hand slipped.

A white shadow passed before the husband.

When he released his hand, his wife Tori saw,

Before his wife spread the vast sea.

The sea—her husband Isana yearned for it.

The husband’s voice was sea spray—

“After the year I saw with you,

“It held the cursed woman’s incantation.”

“The ancient mirror—I was the one who brought it.”

The husband’s voice was the sound of the surging tide—

“The cursed woman is in the village at the foot—

What was reflected in the old mirror—

“The sea I yearned for—my mother’s shore.”

The husband’s voice was the blood of the male, the blood of the female—

Was it a whisper?— “Ah, father’s shadow,

Mother’s form—what was reflected,

“Dreams of waves, mirages of the shore.”

The husband’s voice rended the rough waves.

The sound of a harpoon— “O beloved wife of mine,

That phantom ancient mirror

“Having peeked—now indeed you—”

“I truly—I have envied,

“the revered Pure Land temple’s
Reverend Nun had not come—
I would have perished then, by this hand.”

“Tori, my wife—what phantom did you see—”

“The boundless is the sea,

The waves surge; the sky glows radiant,

Voluptuously, the sea is a maiden’s—”

“Is the sea truly a maiden’s breast?”

“Before long, again—the path through green tree-shaded hedge.”

“The hedge path.” “Ah, Tori, my wife—”

“Verdant leaves—the original orange tree.”

“Under that tree’s shadow, dreams bloom like flowers—
a black-haired young delicate maiden—
even her exposed heels I envy.”
“Tori—my wife—that was my former—”
“You wouldn’t know that—of the delicate maiden—”
Taking hold of hands—now tears—
At that moment—(Ah, how jealous!)

“The Reverend Nun has come here.”

Tori, his wife, spoke more sharply,

“The Reverend Nun has shown the mirror—”

The graceful woman had cut off her hair,

“Ah, noble one,” she said in confession.’

“Ah… Confession.” “That old mirror—”
enshrined in the Reverend Nun’s temple,
From that day reflected a white swan—
“A peacock, a parrot, the Pure Land’s form.”
“Old mirror—be that as it may—”
What of this old man’s heart—
My harpoon killed a friend,
Love unbearable—O Maguro, alas.
“That harpoon—like a star—”
“That harpoon piercing even as it flies—Tori—”

Husband Isana and wife Tori locked eyes—

“That harpoon—somehow it’s known.”

The husband gazed steadily at his wife Tori,

“The graceful woman pursued him,”
“Sank to the depths of the deep sea,”
“I—ah, how—you say—”
“The old whale has perished on the mountain,”
“Ah, how I yearn—the homeland of love,”
“The verdant orange tree’s shadow”
“The hedge path, mother’s shore.”
Tori, his wife, abruptly started—
She doubted; she resented.
That sea; that delicate maiden.
—husband’s—

Isana said, “What has passed is in vain.”

Husband Isana took up the rusted axe,

“Now let us sever the orange tree,
the vow I had made before—
Tori, my wife—speak the words of that long-ago pledge.”

A white figure passed before the husband.

When someone whispered, his wife Tori looked.

When she fell silent, the axe descended.

The orange tree stiffened from its roots.

Ah, the axe! Ah, the orange tree!

There were no flowers, and in the end, no fruit.—

“Ah, wife Tori,” he said, and—

Husband Isana’s breath ceased utterly.

(Published in July 1905)