Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kitahara Hakushū

Circular Lamp

Starvation-Thirst

Ah, the heat! Ah, the torment! Ah, the parching through!

My fervid city of flames,

The brick desert of the capital,

In the wide avenue of the sulfur sea desert, at its very center,

The starving Triton God’s standing statue,

Around the large basin of the dried-up fountain,

The white enamel stone steps lay scorched, parched, and numbed.

In its shadow, someone stripping off a crimson undergarment,

Amidst the striking of the clapper for a sorrowful farce play,

A guitarist playing recklessly, and the Sufferer,

The vertigo of voluptuous dance,

And then the Drunkard, gulping down firewater while forcibly rolling,

The blind men, laughing uproariously, cut into watermelons.

Ah, the heat! Ah, the torment! Ah, the parching through!

Behold now, the brink of the instant,

The faint vein of sorrow, deeply imbued,

The translucent undersides of the Dragon-Horse's wings swayed and tangled,
A pool of water in the basin.
And there too lingered the breath of the God Blowing a Spiral Shell—
Even his song, blown ceaselessly into flames until chilled to marrow and permeated,
Now stood emptied out; what remained for listening was hunger-wearied exhaustion,
The agonized screams of lead-tormented earth-pipes.
Ah, the heat! Ah, the torment! Ah, the parching through!
In the void tumbled and glittered the copper-colored sun's skull,
While clouds melted like blood into silence, leaving not even a shadow behind.
Only the ailing southeast wind hung heavy yet wavering,

It flapped its rotten, poisonous wings.

The long drought of late July, now at noon's zenith,

Within purgatory's scorching heat-torment itself,

Fire-wheeled chariots raced, oil wept, gas-scent shrieked,

Pitch-black chimneys quaked madly - that clamorous frenzy.

Who now drove again—shrill and piercing—
As though gulping crimson breath whole—
The madness-made automobile roared.
Ah, the heat! Ah, the torment! Ah, the parching through!
“Madman—run them down!”
“Sufferer—spew forth your blood!”
Scrape till gutstrings snap!
Strike till kindling cracks!
Flit madly—perish utterly!

Get drunk, and never again awaken to this mortal world.
Blind men, suck those crimson entrails.

Ah, alas, ah, alas,

As long as this drought persists,
Your starvation cannot be healed.
Ah, the heat! Ah, the torment! Ah, the parching through!

Youthful trumpet

The breath that blows the trumpet in anguish,

The breath that blows the trumpet in anguish,

Whither dost thou wander back?

The crimson whirl of the heart

Through it dost thou leak and blow forth.

The tormenting spirit's solitary thread

In water's piercingly cold timbre.

In valleys where venomous evil dwells

The viper of debauchery coils about,

And lo, the body grows numb and dissolves,

Tormented by unbreakable bonds.

Through fields where mad thoughts swirl

Challenging sulfur flames that battle,

Again in dread of bitter cages

Inviting crimson ruin.

The gasping of languid longing

Steamed stagnantly, thus though tormented,

I blew, my breath coming in fits and starts,
the trumpet of primordial youth.

Terror-shadowed drooping leaves

Amidst them, red fruit ripened.
My dream—ah—in that sky:
Dampened yet burning sorrow,
Dampened yet burning sadness—
Through its sacrifice did it blow forth:
The limitless throes of life's agony
Within the finite strength of the breast.

Ah, alas—still—the breath that blew the trumpet,

Ah, alas—still—the breath that blew the trumpet,

Whither didst thou wander back?

A grove of ginkgo with verdant leaves,

A grove of ginkgo trees with verdant leaves,

A grove of slender young trees.

There, in the verdant shade of broad daylight,
A grove of ginkgo trees with trembling leaves.

Skirting northward beneath them,
A chill path, solitary,
Faintly fumbling with the Chinese fiddle,
As in a dream, I traced my path.

A grove of ginkgo trees with verdant leaves

Though I walk on and on, the road remains endless.

A grove of slender young trees,

Not even the sound of buntings singing can be heard.

The sniffling sorrow's kokyu,

Trembling leaves, verdant shade.

Thus alone I wandered,

Played while listening intently,

All day long tears welled up,

This self walking through verdant leaf-shade.

In winds bearing imperceptible things,

A faint-hearted ear inclined.

I stopped and stood gazing back,
drawing strength from sorrow's strings.
Quietly—serenely—
when my tender search brought only anguish,
the pale azure silk robe
remained unbent by dew's weight.
Yet still I played the kokyu
along the endless road ahead—
"How long must I walk weeping thus?
How long must this endure?"
Ah! Ah! The ginkgo grove—

A verdant verdant young tree grove.

The depths of the forest

The depths of the forest lay faintly dark.

At summer’s end, the start of Nagatsuki,
Alas, even the sun grows wanly dim,

Pale yellow lament seeps away

The verdure of Fura Rankin's broad leaves,

Or again, the large walnut tree,

In the depths of melancholy’s shadow,

The lingering scorch of relentless sunlight

Filtered through yellow, evening falls suffused with fragrance.

Amidst this, strangely quiet,

The glow of a brooding white horse.

Could that indeed be the god of summer days,

Had he forgotten to ride at dusk?

The crimson reins' hue,

The silver stirrups, the saddle,

Exceedingly wondrous, the radiant mystery of dreams.

Merely white, faintly white.

Autumn’s shō tones encircling it

Quietly, softly lamented.
Was it the horn's tone that reverberated,
Was it the ailing fruit or the song that soured away?
And thus again through dark leaves,
Though the dove’s flute seeped through.
The pale yellow light filtered through,
In the single thread of yesterday’s lingering cry,
Faintly white, it lingered as dusk fell.
The pensiveness of color’s tranquility.
The forest now lay faintly dark.

Round lantern

The terror of twilight valleys.
Tonight again it glimmers in the distance—the crimson round lantern.

A crimson round lamp.
Do they know it? Do they not know it? Still—

In the depths of the troubling scent
A crouching, silent group.

A pure white dream-water buffalo,
Though it existed, all were blind.
The heavy undulations of beasts.
Blindness dwelled not in eyes alone—
Blunted by materiality, smothered in darkness,
The many hearts and minds too.

Thus alas, how many nights had passed.

They did not speak, they did not raise their heads,

Yet they waited as if expecting something.

The silence of terror deepened.

Amidst this, tonight too fades
A crimson round lamp.
June of the 41st Year

Questing steps

Exceedingly high, exceedingly deep, exceedingly quiet, exceedingly still.

Beneath the dark, cold rows in the shadow of the night forest,
I trod.

Exceedingly high, exceedingly dark, exceedingly dense, exceedingly faint,
Rows of slender alders - through the very depths beneath them
I trod.

Beneath sorrow sunken exceedingly high and deep,

With true bare skin of purest white, with the pride of Tokowaka unclothed,

I tread.

The air where even a certain red alder's treetop remained unseen—
ah, upon that branch like crimson-hued little birds, stars appeared.
Ah, solitary one.

Exceedingly high, exceedingly deep, exceedingly quiet, exceedingly still.

Beneath the dark, cold rows in the shadow of the night forest,

I walked.

And yet now the silent beast came stealthily tracking.

Than yesterday, than last year, than when I had been born—no, than a previous life.

It came tracking stealthily.

On such a night—a certain treetop—ah, stars appeared in that sky.

Crimson star, crimson star—dimly I perceived,

Such visions too.

Exceedingly high, exceedingly deep, exceedingly cold, exceedingly still.

In the shadow of the night forest—suddenly, ah—the path collapsed.
A valley that was not.
Alas, alas—into the valley that was not, how darkly the spirits fell.

O sorrow of true bare skin, through blood-scented thorns—

How shall I make my way?

There was a sound of footsteps; the silent beast seemed to withdraw stealthily.
Alas, yet another star—in the darkness beyond where none could be seen—
and now it faded away.
Suddenly, something’s moan—while touching soft feet—
here and there—ah!—bloody thorns from those dark depths below.

An infant's cry emerged.

June of the 41st Year

My child's voice
I heard—the unborn—the unfathomable—
The child's voice—the crimson scream pleading through tears—
Where did I hear—within such unseen terror?

O fields yonder, the signal post glittered like an execution block,

Bathing in the setting sun filtering through young leaves, it laughed brightly in the distance.

Through the train I heard—the cries of children being run over.

Lo, at journey's twilight, in the damp of clouds retaining their splendor,

My deceased wife from a past life remembered the red clay near the grave,

And thus again I heard within remembrance's hues and scents—
the buried child's unfathomable dream;
the womb's primordial scream.

Having returned, I heard—when I earnestly embraced you—
When even hand-strength's pride had been spent—a moment when the weakened heart faltered—
suddenly pierced through the heart—
the crimson child's piercing scream.

June of the 41st Year

Land of No Voices

Land of Voiceless Twilight,

The dim gloom on memory's hither side was,
Alas, the cold world's silence—the shadow of terror's tree—
The woman of memory emerged unseen from nowhere.

The pure body of true bare skin alone dimly faded into dusk.

White poplars of the voiceless land,

In long rows on both sides, they tremble and quiver,

Like the faint dimness of a blue wax flame that trembled,
From broadness that narrowed into dusk, at the distant boundary of its extremity,
The faint scent of the fountain alone secretly wept.
At the boundary of the voiceless land
O sobbing dream—a single stream of water—
When the play of colors wavered faintly and a sigh escaped,

Alas, in that field where light held no radiance, no color, and no voice—
Only with cold tears falling did the woman’s memory gaze unwaveringly.

Beyond the voiceless land,

Glowing crimson, the vivid-colored sky of memories.

O sound of joyous music! O sweet sorrow clinging to suffering!

To this side, the frenzied dreams of love's yearning did not come resounding,

The clouds merely drifted crimson as yesterday.

The voiceless woman's memory,

gazed intently even as dusk refused to deepen,

only to find the fountain's clandestine fragrance extinguished,

while survival's tormented dream-melodies persisted unabated in their twisted course,

until her true bare-skinned body turned to sorrowful cold stone.

Land of Voiceless Twilight.

And now the memory-sky blazed crimson,

blood-like clouds quivering amidst tremulous music,

flashes revealing the pyx's incense-haze and mottled bones

pallidly floating-scattering—alas already sinking-blurring.

Abysmal Pool

Ah, this abysmal pool's

The heart of the depths—gradually settling still, growing turbid.

The water's surface bearing the womb's scent where no waves stir.

From time to time, a group of dull snakes raised their heads, but...

they made not even the slightest sound, all of them

Their heavy brains clouded with a melancholic hue.

Thus as day turned to dusk,

The dim twilight stealthily intensified among the surrounding camphor trees.

The cold faint laughter of the gray sorceress.

But lo—her hair drifted up, slowly drawn taut—

The primal visage beneath was tightly bound,

Only half her faintly white form emerging from water.

Presently even her breath's faint stirrings softened,

She fanned sightless skies and tilted pipes,

Colors of soap bubbles welling up—

Each rounding crimson as they rose—

Behold: that youthful yet dreadful blood-scent.

And thus all things fell still for a time beyond measure.

Suddenly, the shore's eyes opened jet-black,

A chilling procession of sorceresses aligned and peering forth

With laughter like ribs scraping together,

When her gray hair spread soundlessly,

Here and there, snake clusters raised their heads,

Ah, once more the master sank back into primordial gloom.

Thus again, the dully clouded water's surface,
the turbid womb pregnant with something soundlessly,

The color of night groaned in the depths of silence.

When time had passed and the voices faded away—ah, look now!

In the Abysmal Pool’s dimmed sky, crimson—
Were these ascending spheres—the countless tens of millions of nova blooms?

June of the 41st Year

Rapids

“Dark.” “Dark.”

Listen—skulls crying through the night, rapids' pebbles,
What stares unblinking: venom darker than death's own—
Water's face convulsed by spasmodic gusts,
Listen—trembling, rattling, ten thousand throats lamenting.

The season was winter—the ritual-darkened abyss of Kumano River’s upper reaches,

The gorge’s depths.

“Dark.” “Dark.”

Listen—the skulls already screaming, rapids’ pebbles.

Now then again listen—the bloodstream washing teeth,

The sound of jet-black dripping softly.

Lo, creaking—the bubbles seethed and choked, on the verge of—

The coffin-shroud of black-metal clouds from the Hour of the Ox encircled the Seven Peaks,

The wind trembled.

“Dark.” “Dark.”

Listen—once more screamed the skulls, rapids’ pebbles,

Though they stared intently and shouted—the water viper’s

Bellyless form striped pitch-black,

The terror of night ground and ran—this night grew ever more—

Along jade cliffs where an old fisherman cast his net,

No fire was visible.

“Dark.” “Dark.”

Listen—skulls screaming ceaselessly, rapids’ pebbles,

Now that final agony lapped ever closer,

A single instant of trembling and thinning—

Faster than the shachi, raising the pole from darkness to darkness,

Without lighting a fire, without uttering a sound, their long hair disheveled by the wind,

The boat arrived.

“Dark.” “Dark.”

Listen—now screaming skulls, rapids' pebbles—
all at once shattered in shock and quivered, faces rigid with dread.
When they bit down, the keel—
with a file's blade—a saw dripping blood's scent—
ground like metal, white teeth screeching straight through flesh as they wounded—
they escaped.

“Dark.” “Dark.”

Listen—still screaming skulls, rapids’ pebbles,

In the momentary unguent and the scent of hot meat,

The maddened desire’s rubber fire

Writhing as if refusing—curses and hunger—

At the bottom of regret and death and jet-black choking blood—clenching teeth—

They stared intently.

“Dark.” “Dark.”

Listen—still screaming skulls, rapids’ pebbles,

Though they stared intently, not even the light of Scorpio—

The shadowless underworld quivered—
Though they shouted, the viper polished its belly and raced onward,

The ceaselessly bubbling, falling blood swiftly to its own trembling—
Only choked.

“Dark.” “Dark.”

Listen—night’s screaming skulls，rapids’ pebbles，

Staring intently at what is darker than death—the poisoned chalice’s

The water’s surface convulsed by spasmodic gusts，

Still creaking gratingly and clattering lamentingly—alas，

They fell into endless darkness and starved in the dark．

A crowd of people.

Two Worlds

Within the red world,

Serenely sang small birds,

Within the white-hued world,

Lumbering camels sat.

What the lumbering camels beheld

White sand, stars of white thought,

The ineffable lament of skulls,

The twilight hues of pyramids

The serene song of small birds

Again far away, separated by an entire era,

Within the brain, in the heat of agony,

They chanted countless mockeries.

In the distance, caravan bells,

Here, crimson birdsong.

Once more today was set the boundary

The Sphinx alone, quietly.

The Sphinx—terror’s silence—
the hieroglyphs on its chest—

The riddle too—ah—half-revealed,
Crimson flares; listening ears strain,
Alas now—the white world’s

Dusk.
Yet even so,

The crimson world at high noon.

The Sphinx, its heart perplexed.

Year 41, August

The heart's lingering dusk-tormented play
Late summer's lingering dusk—my heart
Fiddling with billiards in the clouded mind's haze,
From behind, tobacco smoke coiled morbidly,

With thoughts that could discern nothing, I felt myself peering.

Two spheres were tinted in hues I favored,

and two more balls grew hazed, their white circles showing.

Taking up the cue—which should I strike?
Looking closer,

the faint surface of the chartreuse baize table trembled.

That lament—dimly, I perceived it.

Though I knew not which evening it had been, the wounded chest's—

That scent—I recognized it well, cue in hand.

Even so, my play did not cease; colors mingled in.

Gazing upon it, a thought arose as if to shroud it in smoke thereafter.

They laughed for some reason.
Yet even so, this darkening heart—

Toyed with crimson-hued balls in distress.

Dizzy and bewildered by the heavy tobacco smoke.

Where now did that vexing voice linger?

At times it was heard, and things felt crimson-bright.

Is it within my brain, or in the room's reality,
that flame-like presence—the game ventured into night.

Year 41, August

Filigree.

As quiet weeping lingered,

My heart held no filigree—

When I fixed my gaze upon that square-filigreed wall,

There hung a face of dull aspect,

Half obscured by tender stems' undulations

And crimson-bright poppies burning—their smoldering dream.

In its shadow,

In its shadow,

Two blinded white eyes.

Ah, those

Two white eyes,

They saw something,
In the twilight's hushed stillness.

Within the canopy

A dull-colored woolen canopy,
Within that, my solitary thought dwelt alone,
Ah, they took aim at flowers with sightless white eyes,

They strove to behold its crimson hue—parched, ever parched—,

A dull-colored woolen canopy

How long will my thought dwell here alone?

Year 41, August

The skull gazes intently.

The skull gazes intently from between the crimson wine jars of blood,

The skull gazes intently, with lifeless, sunken eyes.

The skull gazed intently, as if trying to recall a forgotten thought—
The skull gazed intently at the face of the woman lying prone and blowing soap bubbles.

Year 41, June

Camphor Symphony

Camphor Symphony

Early summer sky.

Beneath ash-white clouds.

Waterside marsh.

A cluster of camphor's young leaves in golden hue.

Treetops also tall,

A drenched evening after rain—a solitary gleam,

Aflame in the setting sun,

Lush and brilliant,

Harmonizing

Sorrow,

Joy,

Pain,

A scent too frenzied in life's melody...a symphony of dreams...

In its shadow,

Red brick

Substation, soul-blind,

No shriek of high-voltage electricity,

Slanting copper wires

Fire's agony clawing through.

Ozone's damp scent swirling, tangling,

Day and night,
Without pause or time,
Intensely wavering, brewing death’s terror,
Upon pillars arrayed in rows,
“Those who touch shall die thus.”

There was a skull, utterly silent.

And behold, darkly thick and sluggish,

Behold the clouded surface of the leaden-hued water marsh.

Ailing wall,

Camphor's Symphony

A color that reflects yet does not reflect.

Voiceless,

Lifeless,

Dully, heavily,

No waves rose,

Without even stagnating,

All this the silence of days not of this world.

Dull and blurred,

As if pressing against oblivion’s rubber mask,

As if pressing against the palm,

Only occasionally did a thick bass sound seem to groan.

Be that as it may, the early summer's evening light,

From behind ash-white clouds erupted a gilded border,
The music of light flared crimson,
Reflecting back—a moment that burned moistly—oh,
Ah! Uniformly it soared high,
Solemnly, resplendently,
The living melody of orchestral music emerged—
In sorrow,
In joy,

In pain,

Frenzied playing,

Frenzied playing,
Frenzied playing,
Frenzied playing—
Camphor's cacophony... death's ozone...

Ah, pitiful indeed—were night to fall,
What form might this take when night falls?

Now, the sunset-glow substation
Mocked like some jeering specter—
Behold! As if bathed in massacre-blood,
Laughing crimson, whirling bright...

44th Year, May

Late Summer

The light of the setting sun illuminated intensely,
The fountain’s misty spray!
Moistened, steamed, glistened,
Ah, the garden’s saplings bending,

Clusters of flowers, the scent of grass and leaves—
In the fragrance of myriad thoughts.
The fragrance of spilling water—oh!
The light of the sun, the shifting of clouds,
Musk pearls of reluctantly resplendent glory—
Ceaselessly steeped were my dreams.
Swelling softly, buried in mist,
The grief of colors quivering aflame—
Shifted, steamed, dampened—
Twilight's heart-calm came.
The late summer light pierced intensely—
Spray of unending dreams.

Cicada.
Upon the chest—lo—
Upon the sunset-struck trunk,
It came abruptly; the cicada lamented.

Chirp chirp chirp chirp…… chirp chirp chirp chirp……
A golden-wrought slender melody
Frantically, yet sorrowfully.

Chirp chirp chirp chirp…… chirp chirp chirp chirp…….

Thus while crying out again, it gazed intently—

From thoughts of resplendent glory,

From the treetop,

As a single fruit was about to fall.

Chirp chirp chirp chirp…… chirp chirp chirp chirp……

41st Year, June

Summer Night Boat

Insects droned.

Drone-trill-drone... drone-trill-drone...

Ah, my little boat drifts down.

The youth’s wounded boat.

Drone-trill-drone... drone-trill-drone...

Endlessly ahead hazes over,

A faint glimmer of white-walled rows.

The little boat descended through that shadow,
in the quivering haze that contended with swelter.
Drone-trill-drone... drone-trill-drone...
Now, again at the waterway's end,
hovering—
crescent moon crimson,
within the scattered patches of dimness,
voices of those exhausted from sleeplessness and weariness.
Drone... trill...

A certain summer,

In such a night port was heard
Though the twofold rising notes culminated,
Ah, how could I discern whence that came?
The surroundings gradually deepened into gloom,
Like blood
The pale moon trembled.
The lingering vestige of its sinking scent.
Ah, briefly—the insects swarmed in clamor.
Drone-trill-drone... drone-trill-drone...
Drone-trill-drone... drone-trill-drone...
Drone-trill-drone... drone-trill-drone...

Unnoticed, the aura of abyssal darkness,
As the fear deepened

Suddenly, the insect hum fell silent.

Sweltering, breath stifling.

…………………………………………………

The boat still descended heavily.
Suddenly, candlelight flickered at the window,
There emerged the patient’s face.
Inside echoed the sound of a clock.
Creak... creak……………………
A heavy cough came again and again,
The jet-black curtain fell.

Ah, dark night.

Creak... creak……………………Creak... creak……………………

And still the little boat descended.

Where would this journey end,

Truly, I knew not—this single stream of water,

The endless night of white walls.

Creak... clatter-clatter... Creak...

Abruptly, the closing door,

Beneath the shadow-darkened Daikokugane walls, the small boat became stuck.

Ah,

O darkness where all things became indistinct,

Within perhaps some torment lay concealed.

Hundreds of silent great oxen.

The finality? The stagnant pool of terror?

The boat, ah, came to rest without a sound.

Drone-drone… trill-drone…

But no—again, an inherent

irresistible force

pushed the boat along that water.

Creak... creak...

Clatter-clatter-clatter… creak…

Clatter-clatter-clatter... Clatter-clatter-clatter...

Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter... Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter...

The small boat endlessly descends.

Grand Composition "Agony"

A multitude of crimson voices

Brain removed, they thundered forth—

Was it my fleeing footsteps,

The dark of dull woolen fabric
Was trampled, trampled…………
Clang-clatter, clang-clatter,
Faintly, a skylark.
Ah—now came the grindstone's grating resonance,
The slipping gleam of a dull blade.
Through this [space], crimson voices
Dripped blood as they thunderously surged forth.
The dull woolen dream
Was trampled, trampled…………
Clang-clatter, clang-clatter,

Faintly, a skylark.
Suddenly, ah, the footsteps ceased,
Only the slackly echoing dull blade.
The quiet midday of early summer,
White clouds rose leisurely,
A soft wind swayed and swayed.
Clang-clatter, clang-clatter,
Trilling skylark.
Where, oh where did they sway—the strings' anguish………

“...Ah, alas, desist now—our dream—”

“...even in that day’s sorrowful kiss………”

A slackened, drowsy grindstone.

“...even in that day’s sorrowful kiss,”

The unhindered pride of “I”,

“Fervently embracing it, I weep, yet terror and anguish…’”

Ah, still this melancholy grindstone.

“...Ah, alas, desist now—the terror of flesh—”

Your fiery gaze,

My blood’s defiance,

“Intending to kill, intending to die—I tremble crimson………’”

Clang-clatter—clang-clatter—

Faintly, a skylark.

“...Intending to kill, intending to die, I tremble crimson………,”

The unheard black violin’s flicker of fire—

As vortices whirled across the fields bringing collapse,

Billowing smoke of briny blood,

Through this briny smoke, my voices

Thundered forth again.

Stealthily, coolly, the pure water glistened——

In the glistening, an angular tube’s light,

A sigh of sorrowful sound faintly arose.

Abruptly, again, the footsteps ceased,

The plains were uniformly twilight-colored.

In the sky of faint fragrance,

The horizon glowed faintly red,
From the water surfaces here and there,

Water buffaloes emerged.

The quiet of water buffaloes—ah—

In the hushed sound of horns, one contemplated matters.

Yet the dull blade's

sliding noise—the grindstone's reverberation—

Clang-clatter, clang-clatter,

Faintly, a skylark.

Water buffaloes sat quietly,

Trembling and sorrow's groans rose as,

Gradually, gradually brightening—the mystery of

Gazing upon the intensely red western sky,

Terrifying—they trembled at the approach of something.

From where had the Violon’s dream seeped through………

“...Restlessly, alas, restlessly, alas—”

The sailboat of love——

The sky-blue sail tore, soaked by waves——

Today again, two people,

Today again, two people,

“...returning toward sorrowful Shimane......”

Again came the dull grindstone’s echo.

Through sorrowful light, the stern’s sigh,

The sorrowful sea-going young dream’s
Faintly glowing starlight in the empyrean,
“Ah, helpless now, we return……”

Suddenly arose the myriad voices of people sneering on this side and that.

“...Overwhelmed by agonizing struggle,
A heart trembling with sighs of longing—
Ah, how shall we endure this torment?
Yet helplessly return the two……”

The ascended resonance of grindstones—the multiplied slide of dull blades—
“...Crimson kisses, painful complaints,
Ah, though we embrace and weep once more……”
Again nearby came dark laughter.

“...Ah, sorrowful—
Sorrowful light,
Our light,
The sorrowful eyes within...”

Water buffaloes leapt away in frantic flight.

Ah, even drenched in crimson blood, they howled madly and plunged into despair’s roar.

The firmament rapidly transformed into the moon’s visage,

when suddenly the crimson semicircle spread as if blind,

the field’s grindstones resounded as one—the scent of countless blades—

and now, crimson sneers on every side…no room to spare.

The terror-stricken visage of the great moon, majestically spread to fullness,

when decayed vertigo thrice overwhelmed them with violent spasms and they collapsed,

in the blink of an eye, blood mist rose,

the voice of my fleeing...

They reappeared and thunderously charged forth.

The water buffaloes' cries………the resonance of countless grindstones………

Bitter scoffing… And now, still the running footsteps…

La-lira-la-lira,

A faint skylark.

Abruptly now, they went deaf.

Color………… Sound………… Light…………

41st Year, August

Giant Drum Impression

Leaped forth, the red beast,

Boom, boom………

Glanced about, laughed roundly, then leaped again.

Boom, boom………

Ah! Now from the street corner a person turned.

Boom, boom………

Another came.

Boom, boom………

The red beast suddenly vanished and became a young child,

Boom, boom………

They crawled around the train tracks.
A person appeared again.

Boom, boom………

Ah, the crowd tumbled, their sounds clattering.

Boom, boom………

They piled atop the young child.
They tumbled again.

Boom, boom………

Before they can even groan in attempt to flee, the resonance grows faint,

Boom, boom………

The dull tram comes groaning.
And now, it runs over and speeds past.

Boom, boom………

At times, a mass of pure white clouds rises from the town,

Boom, boom………

From the vanishing traces of people,

Boom, boom………

Again leaps the red beast

Boom, boom………

It glanced about, laughed blindly, then acted arrogantly.

Boom, boom………

41st Year, August

If one closes their eyes,

If one closed their eyes, birds sang.
Within the blinded crimson world,
weary birds sang.

Within the blinded crimson world,
What appeared again was the aura of ribs -
Lightless, strengthless, yet faintly glimmering.
The ribs wept and pleaded:
"My bones are, my bones are the crimson shield of the heart.
Thus becomes the final tombstone."

The birds sang.

‘The Brahmin’s Brahmin’s salt I have tasted,

‘Because of sin must they cry thus day and night.’

Where now wanders that katydid?

Within the blinded crimson world,
The powerless groaning rabble

They rose in commotion, and the birds sang.

A face vanished, then suddenly appeared.
That face—a girl’s, seemingly emaciated.
The girl lamented.

“Alas, you—I am wearied unto death.”

The birds sing.
The girl’s face lingered faintly before becoming a white hand,
weary and trembling as it poured wine.

“Crimson wine—that is my lifeblood,
Drink in moderation and begone.”

The birds sang.

When I opened my eyes with a start, red scattered before me—

The dizzying whirl of light rays' luminous mass.

The birds sang.

When my gaze settled again—the swaying of weeping bones emerged,

A human face.
Then—a katydid.

The birds sang.

These bones.

Listen, in the dawn’s incense burner,

The midnight sky ablaze with relentless throbbing

As the throbbing fades and dim light breaks,

Kiyokaki, soon entirely—

Only the color of a single scent

The fragrance sways—alas, the water’s surface...

Morning after—who is held,

There at the Minazuki desk

The incense fire burns—these bones.

Blue wine

Jūroban

Great—

Listen—the fingers of the great black-metal giant
ceaselessly toyed with my countless ruby beads—
they toyed.

Since when—unknown—
Upon the pulsing left palm
Crystal stars carved upon sandalwood beams
Were laid down.

What met the eye was merely
the bellows-like palm's dark carvings,
fingers plucking as day and night stayed undivided.

The color of heaven.
My beads'
Ascent births one planet within kalpa-worlds,

When they descend, the glory of a hundred million years perishes.

Regulatory Law.
Thus did my
rightly aligned rubies' wondrous music
resound within the great ecstasy
of utmost lifespan.

Radiance—

The great chiliocosm erupted in a unified scream.

On the Day of Terror—lo!—unknowingly, I grew drunk on sound.

Stellar beams.

What reached the ear was merely,

The boundless expanse of heaven's solitude stretching far away

The brush raced, by chance inscribing 『Balance』.

The sound of dreams.

And now, once more,

A young giant partitioned the lofty breast of black metal.

I heard the gentle beating of a drum,

The heart’s core.

Flapping.

Hearken—there in the open sea’s very heart,

All day long hung a heavy copper fog,

Waves undulated languidly, the solar disk—

Terrifying—a mass of black blood scorched and smoldered.

As far as the eye could see, beneath the equator’s scorching heat,

Lead-like brine burns with flames,

The sea serpent raised its sickle-shaped head high—by chance,
It glittered, then sank down bluishly with a gurgle.
All things were listless and heavy—the open sea,
Wearied by melted swaying undulations of melancholy,
A sigh deepening like night.
And yet,

Through thick fog parting in vast stillness' lofty sky,

From eastern realms palely glimmered spiritual wisdom's light,

Appearing yet persisting—the great bird's mighty wings beat on.

Blue wine

Blue wine—

And yet, you refuse.
This is the flame of my depths,
And the mark of eternal secrets—I hear as
The color that sank into the triumphal song of fierce love.

Mere instant—

The star that appears but once in a millennium—indeed,

I and the fiery droplets of wine I brewed—

In the dripping of dense illusions, even heaven burned.

If one drank this,

In the moment of moments—it was in the ecstasy of lamenting blood that—

Agonizing sealing-wax red of your chest,

Listen amidst scorching,

In this midnight hour, the soundless resounding orchestra,

From the void, blue fire’s mane-length hair dragged forth.

Empty jar.

The wine jar’s upper wrapping—a sacred robe,

What demon, through spasms of insatiable desire,

Thus tore it apart and callously cast it aside.
——

Fragments of fire made barefoot ones weep with me.

Where was one to go to obtain life's sustenance?

What they trod were only sparks of fire upon leaden roads,

Through the depths where death-hued high walls stretched in endless rows.

Like ants, they crawled seeking the furthest extremity.
——

Suddenly fragrant—the song of wine—when it seemed to suffocate,

The various tribes of red-cheeked imaginings,

Now intoxicated and gone mad—ah, by my very blood!
Thus behold those tumbling into my vision—
The sucked-dry jar of sky—void-life,
At terror’s final crossroads—they turned ashen.
Conflagration.

My heart was scorched and scorching—there unexpectedly heard
the shrieking sun of obsession, wingbeats of blackening evil fire.
The oil-sunlit crossroads stood ghastly and soundless,
while in the cloudless sky, electricity’s whirlpool spun into oblivion—death throes.

Lumbering lead trams came to a halt,
hanging fragments of life’s paper and wax-sealed people of thin-leaf iron—
the panting of black bricks roared through a choking ring’s earnestness.

Let the event erupt—where now might lie the alarm bell’s chromatic warning?
A blast—conflagration’s fiery light—in midday’s glare where vision failed,

Swiftly lengthening—drew a cross and froze—the braided cord's color,

When darkness fell—from behind came clang clang clang—they charged forth,

Though a gap might exist—as if proclaiming—brandishing a whip, abruptly charged forth—

Black-armored vermilion steam pump carriages,

Leapt past! Water in the kettle boiled with splattering sputters,

Crimson fire.

Night falls.

Two people turned ashen on deathbed chairs, sitting facing each other—
poisoned wine in the cup.
Let the crimson candle be lit.
Before their very eyes:

When they stared mutely and listened to blazing glory’s undulations—dream-drunk—
O crimson heat entangling body and spirit in sacred blossoms’ youth!

The fire became grape-dyed drapery, floral carpets, silver baskets—
gauze robes too, green tresses, young eyes bearing conflagration’s

thick-burning aroma—‘Time’s breath—a smoldering blink—‘Reminiscence!’
“Love” stirred sweltering air within Kegon’s desolate void.

Lips untouched by time seared in “Rakuyoku’s” thirst—the heart’s core heaved—

When they gasped—dizziness!—the crimson fire “Bonnō” exuded its blood-hued aura.
Vermilion wax tears disturbed the poisoned cup’s purple, shining and dripping.
Now at last, the wax wrapped itself in a robe of flames upon the enamel,
In the white heat that melted soundlessly, a weak heart rotted and glistened,
When one wept wordlessly, the golden light of “Rebirth” blazed forth.

Dusk Sorrow

Dusk seemed to have fallen.
Before one knew it，the walls too turned gray；the room grew hazy，
A single peony on the board surfaced in blood-hue and festered，

Without scattering, the heart's heat sank into silence's fragrance,
When one hung both hands over the desk and closed their eyes, darkness perfumed the air.
Outside lay an aged town within wind-dampened fragrance's warmth,
Temples upon temples—their chants muffled in twilight's Uzuki month-end,
Upon pedestrians' timeworn umbrellas dim lamps cast glow; the main street blushed crimson,
Tangerine-clouds damply glowed; stars flickered through intervals.
My chamber stood as dream-hermitage where famed incense swayed fragrant,
In distant eras' twilight solitude steeped in melancholy grace's faint resonance,
Vaguely—women's figures persisted through continuous light—multitudes upon multitudes,

Like a swan’s song they passed by—the gliding hems of gauze.

Within that scene, you dwelt.
Green hair rippled over shoulders,

The purity of the countenance, the rose-hued thin silk fluttering upon the chest—

In the passionate turmoil of the emotional world, the black eyes radiated a glow,

The scarf fluttered—the footsteps of a dream light and unreal in semblance.

Ah, that too was but a fleeting moment.
Had it been the evening when there was a flower festival—

The avalanche of the crowd flowed serenely through the flower-song quarter of the hour.

A day when festival floats paraded through every crossroads, where passersby exchanged but fleeting glances,

The noble elegance that was yours came to be forgotten without longing.

Now proceeded the shadow of memory—chasing a phantom wrought of gold—
As the avenue of a waning heart darkened into dusk, they did not look back.

Young traveler of life—crumbling with sweet fragrance—
I grieve, even unto the night where tears of longing turn endlessly bluish.

Tangled Weave

Garden of Figs

Something cries from the fields—O maiden,
Thy garden of figs lies distant—
I have not come.
Now raise thine eyes.

Today again leaves cast shadows, fruits stay hidden,
Basking in sunlit winds of sweet fragrance.

Let us converse.
Come, join hands with me.

Is that weeping in the night, O maiden?
Thy garden has burned.
The grass too—
The fig trees and their fruit are gone.

Ah! Pitiable indeed lies thy entire garden.

The leaves and trunks—ah! Even the fruit and fragrance?
The grassy bed—even the nest of love.
Well then, enough.
White kerchief—
Fair tears upon thy cheek

First, wipe them away.
The violet’s fragrance.
Once you, in spring’s dust,

What did you vow, what did you rue—
This love and that old garden.

Ah, the garden was burned by wildfire.

Now it is gone.—O beautiful recollection

Only let the fragrance of her bosom radiate.

Then let us seek the joys of love.

From today, in the fields and mountains, in the valleys,

Lilies, roses—the glory of flowers' day.

Ah! Thus ends love's final craving.

Even through nights burning like fire that scorch flesh,

Do you weep still—how now, O maiden?

Swallows

Swallows soar through Minazuki rains—

In drenched locks of cloud-bearing standard.
——

The dark port glowed crimson
The gloom remained unbroken—droplets beaded on sails.
Swallows soared—the settlement’s
mandarin-orange-hued window glass
Slanting high.
——Flickering—
The scent of fire dampened by mist.
Swallows soared—leaf tobacco and
Vioron-perfumed Dutch
In front of the tavern.
——Many pipes—
The sea’s color groaned as dusk deepened.

Swallows soar—pomegranate flowers—

In the firelight of the drenched pier.
Now hearken—the seductive women’s
lewdly youthful whispers.

Coral Cutting

Mid-afternoon,

On the shore, the gentle sound of waves.

The girl soon gracefully moved,
She did not answer “What?”, lowering her eyes,
Crimson coral branches in multitude.
Selecting, cutting—lightly.
As the teeth of the saw screeched,
Slender arms and on cheeks
A rose-colored mist hazily thickened.

After a moment,

On the shore, the gentle sound of waves.

The man pressed his burning cheeks close

“I think of you,” he whispered softly,

Then he swiftly from behind—
The handle of the coral lathe—
When he turned it lightly, she hesitated—
On white blouse and hair,
A rose-colored mist hazes thickly.
Unrestrainedly.
On the shore, the gentle sound of waves.
The girl, straining, blushed,
“Me too,” she let the sun over the sea pass through glass—
Letting it pass through glass, gradually—
The jewel of love taking shape—
Polishing, blowing, now and then—
When he rotated the lathe, beautifully—

A rose-colored mist hazes thickly.

Tumultuous Weave

――Amakusa Elegy――

What I wove—

Stitched with flames of fig,

Floral Dhāraṇī's Shōjō Scarlet.

Thud, thud, swish.

Thus indeed—

Ceaselessly the shuttle burned, beat tumultuously—

The Baekje zither of flaming figs.

Thud, thud, swish.

Listened in a daze,

Before I knew it, I was immersed in Shōjō Scarlet,

In Floral Dhāraṇī's phantom.

Thud, thud, swish.

Chaotic weave,

In the sedge-fence where nuts fall,

Futokosoukabe - a silver shield.

Thud, thud, swish.

Flip—
Palm-leaf horse emblem
In Floral Dhāraṇī's phantom.
Thud, thud, swish.
Shines again—
White helmet’s Yawata seat,
The Baekje zither of flaming figs.
Thud, thud, swish.
Chaotic weave,
Abruptly through the sky go columns of spears.
In Floral Dhāraṇī’s phantom.
Thud, thud, swish.

Thus I beheld,
In the sedge-fence of flaming figs
Your armor's Shōjō Scarlet.
Thud, thud, swish.
I, again—
In Floral Dhāraṇī's phantom.
A white neckerchief waves.
Baekje zither.
Thud, thud, swish.

At that moment,

The horse neighs, shrilly,

In the fig of the flaming Dhāraṇī.

Thud, thud, swish.

Alas, now—

In the sedge-fence of Floral Dhāraṇī

Embrace again, you and I.

Thud, thud, swish.

Not looking at heaven,

Covered by the sound of dripping honey,

Your armor's Shōjō Scarlet.

Thud, thud, swish.

Is this a dream,

An ephemeral moment? Or an unending phantom?

Floral Dhāraṇī's shuttle sound.

Thud, thud, swish.

Tall loom

――Amakusa Madrigal――

On the tall loom

I did not throw the shuttle.

Snip, swish.

Upon that chest

I did not throw the shuttle.

Snip, swish.

Upon that tall loom,

Upon that chest

Snip, swish.

Denouement

――Amakusa Madrigal――

"There was a flower, our rose,"

"Our rose was plucked."

"Thus, again, timelessly,"

"Our rose withered."

"Our rose has withered."

Alas, if one leans on the hearth, inevitably,

The denouement was thus decided, 'tis said.

Our old woman, the rose of that day,

“When asked ‘Why?’, thus it was—”

Crimson socks smoldered by fire
She stepped back abruptly while choking,
“O children—that—ah—that rose...”
“Because it burned too crimson.”

A sigh.

The soirée had just ended.

In the slender wail of floral-patterned gas,

Crimson velvet of silk curtains,

Scattered remnants of bouquets,

Hazily, the room took on a bluish hue,

The youthful knight's spurs

Clashed with sounds, stamped through dances,

Flushed cheeks, light murmurs,

Oily hair—alas—the music,

Warmly mingled in disarray,

Drifted like a dream and smoldered.

In its midst, water's chill
scattered and faded—ah, this—through the solitary night,
companionless taking on bluish pallor.
A young woman's youthful sigh.
Time bell.

It seeped into flesh.—"My tale too...
My tale remains unspent.
How wearisome."

O youth, in the crimson hearth fire,

Do not burn the beautiful tabi.

Even more than that evening's love—

“There exist nights of deceptive chill.”

The old woman muttered thus while
lacking strength to break and add the firewood.

Outside, perhaps snow was falling.

With burning eyes, the youth looked up,
Wordless, she bowed her head once more.

For a time, the silence shattered,
On the soot-stained Edo-painted wall
The Imperial Guard’s red caps aglow,
The sparks crackled and scattered, then fell silent.

It must be nearing nine.

Ah now, the bell of Mejiro Soen ceased its tolling.

If

Let there be me in the hearth’s chair,

And behold, there was fire ablaze.

The small mechanical chime clock on the shelf

Before the dove emerged and sounded three times,

My lips were at your mouth,

Necks entwined through fire's torment,
nor did they notice the tabi scorching,

Ah, summer—I, even I—

In the fireless hearth, no chair remained,

O married woman, be at peace—you too.

Ah, woman!

“O stay awhile—

O lovely youth,

‘Where are you going?’ ‘And you—what of you?’

‘O handsome one, alas—on what day would...

“Did I appear before you?” “Be that as it may,”
“I cannot know.” “Begone then,

“The beauty of those noble eyes—”
“How could I forget?” “Enough now—”
“First, arise—Master of the Field?”
“No.” “Ah—I knew—Hachisuka’s

“Is it you?” “No, no.” “Ho ho, well then—”

“Your age?” “Nineteen.” “How brisk!”

“The law department?” “No.” “‘No,’ you say?”

“Farewell most excellent.”
“Now, you—”

“Where to?” “Azabu. And you – again?”

Hoho—the unforgettable lover,
With just “Come,” they moved aside,
The automatic telephone’s fiery panel
Effortlessly slid open as they slipped within.

Procession of Donkeys

――To such critics of poetry――

A procession of donkeys trudges through the street.

Behold―upon sluggish trained steps,
faceless eyeless crowds―
loaded,
hung their heads,
and groaned.

A procession of donkeys trudges through the street.

The transformed akebi cried out,
furthermore―earless crowds―
mouths alone red and inflamed.

A procession of donkeys trudges through the street.

Alas, all day long they groped blindly—

An ashen-hued monstrous horde,

Their whips lashed with dull thuds.

A procession of donkeys trudges through the street.

Being fundamentally not of human form,

They could perceive neither color nor scent nor song’s voice—

They could not smell; they were reviled.

A procession of donkeys trudges through the street.

Only a single poppy bloomed at the door.

You who know not—how could you ever—

The inner heart of the deep mansion.

A procession of donkeys trudged through the street.

Already reviling, your enemy—

A mantle of fire embracing the white horse
In the kiss of a thousand leagues away.

Lightning strike

Lightning struck.

It quieted down yet remained still for a time.

A mist-rising stretch of plateau continued.
Festering 'Time' lay far off,
carrying dreadful suffering.
Another skirmish of sudden rain—
from gaps between scudding clouds,
the blue sky laughed lightly,
sunlight growing intense and dazzling.

The fields took on an even more scorching hue.
The metallic reek of ozone.
Vermin-dripping wheat ears,
The great zelkova tree now rent asunder
throbbed as if parched within its wound,

At the very moment greasy black ooze dripped down,

Oil cicadas shrilled their rasping chorus.
At the roots coiled a viper-like presence—

A red-haired beggar lay alone—
on his back, clutching a washbasin—
behold: dead he lay.
Lightning-scorched features twisted—
on one cold earth-toned cheek
a blood droplet—glistening faintly—
a single crimson carnation.

A September Night (First Draft)

September’s Tutelary Deity Festival

The night deepened, the heavens threatening.

Rain's eve approached while the moon shone,

Lightning flashed; thick clouds loomed here and there.

Lead-hued crimson festered,

Illuminating the elevated track across the field.

This area—a long, gradual slope—

The elementary school with its towering alder trees:

The fence ended, below lay a millet field.

A katydid sang in the darkness.

Where now? A woman’s voice—
The weighty sound of storm shutters being drawn.

Daishido Road—the thick fog at the crossroads,
In the stable’s flickering light,
The magic lantern’s blurred blueness
Sweltered densely where a broken carriage lay.
Seven or eight smeared in mud,
A dark shadow faded into silence.
The mud glistened with the sweat of all things.

In the tepid, heavy air,
Mingled with fresh osmanthus,
The stable’s stench thickened,
The languid rustling flapped and fluttered,
Carved the summer night's agony.
Footsteps sounded, fresh blood seeped.
Pitter-patter, a figure ahead.
A fallen one? Or perhaps a beggar?
Carrying a heavy haversack on his back,
Like a blue flame fading away,
Groaning, he vanished into the darkness.
Ah, now at last the pinnacle of dread—
The bell cricket sang out of tune,
Clamoring, it abruptly ceased breathing,
Dangling golden cords,
The heart panted while
Once more sank into the black coffin.

The last train thunders its presence.

Before the ferocious torrential rain,
Beyond where red bricks tower high,
Across the expanse, a tide of blood flows—

The field was crimson; signs of people dying.
Lightning flashed— Ah, the night was one o'clock.

Sole

In the narrow gap of pitch darkness near the sea,

In the midst of night’s swirling embers,

They took up a sake jar and peered through—

A brown face rushed by;

The train now passed them.

It did not tilt—splendid joy—

No—a cadence pooled in the breast.

A single drop of purgatorial fire.

At that moment, someone—kon, kon, ka, kan—

Hammers persist; soles pound.

The voices of Itosaki and the children calling.

I wandered aimlessly.

Wind-chilled December, its port—

I wandered aimlessly alone through the dusk.

In the dim twilight's faint light,

A street of old shops stood like a widow.
Because of me their faces altered—had I thus fallen ill?
Many people gazed fleetingly outward,
A stony bluish pallor settled over every shop.
Here and there, lit lattices stood,
The sound of hammers striking coffins grew ever more frantic,
In the brick-laden vacant lot—alas, whose child was this—
Though awkwardly singing their ballad of secret vows,
The blurred sound of a duet’s mournful melody,
Unusually stopped the traveler’s footsteps,
The light burned blue in the willow-thronged darkness.

At the port, even the sound of waves reverberated dully,
Ash-laden sleet clouds churned in the sky.
In the bright-edged yellow distance, seabirds
In the smoke-dense darkness of masts, a single row
Vermilion-hued great flags wailed and swirled about.
The ship rang its bell once more, and thus vanished.
That evening when your figure vanished beyond,
And lo, beyond the still-unseen sea—
Behold this day too—the blue glimmer of Jupiter.

Dark Anguish

What was this? At dusk's falling, people murmured restlessly,

At the vacant lot on the slope bordering Shinkai,

They huddled down.
There and here among bricks and lime,

Mingled with yellowed tall grass, the wind turned cold.

Gray round pebbles rolled clattering.

Having set it down, they slowly rose on tiptoe from the old man's shoulder

To peer inside—shadowy voices of every sort.

A distant sense of other towns groping through their own darkness.

An ancient well stood there, its crossbeam fully collapsed and warped,

The shadoof-guillotine's bones towering,

Blood flowing.
A crimson-tinged serpent's shed skin

Inverted below lay this dark death cave.
People all craned their necks strangely,

They cautiously retreated in a ring.
Ah, poor youths—
Three of them had grown faintly pale, steeped in blue,
Not even the waist cord’s end made the slightest rustle.

Time raced on—the frail blue Western suit
With a jerk contorted forward face-first, then lurched swimmingly ahead.
Before eyes could follow, now the stench of gas swelled thickly—
Enveloping the town; the sky yellowed even as one watched.
With shocking rupture—look!—they came tumbling into the main road,
The town's roofs bathed in western sun, the tall Jesus Temple,
People fanning themselves all found their faces chilled.
The wind passed yet more coolly through the grass.
A lamp was lit; within the Chinese-style floor's glass a figure appeared.
As light froze glaringly in fan-shaped radiance,
Through every recess of the plain where old bricks lay piled high,

Faintly, the sound of crickets chirping seeped through.

Hell and Paradise

“Behold now!” declared a gravelly voice.

The low-roofed mountain cottage’s earthen floor—
where a fish oil lamp smoldered crimson,
where human swelter mingled with dense night fog—
dimly manifested hell’s spectacle.

The spectacle manifested.
―Ah, the pointing of the whip,
The guide: a tea-colored hood.

The guide piously chanted sutras.
He struck a sign high on the gate again,
With a lotus-leaf metallic voice,
the aged one ceaselessly called out to visitors—
And they saw—merely vermilion peeled away,
Enma King, blue ox-headed and horse-headed demons,
In the midst of his lecture—all at once—
They rattled their lower jaws.
——

“Renowned Hell and Paradise.”

The nauseating stench of oil smoke,

The girls steamed in their sweat,

Hearts glaring with scorching heat—

Chariot of Fire or boiling cauldrons,

As if echoing the screams of the Hungry Ghost Realm,

People brewed anguish.

Yet still the old man earnestly

Recited the cycle of karma.

Tera-machi Street during Obon,

Between the curtains of the monkey show,

Trumpet melodies blared wantonly—

The dampened bluish gloom of shadows,

The Sai no Kawara where children play,

At length he expounded upon karma,

“Impudent ones...” he lamented in a sorrowful voice,

As if from stone, he shed tears.

A full circuit—already Paradise,
The crimson exit with picture lanterns
Splendidly towering pavilions,
The kalavinka birds sang.

At this moment,

The scent of sake wafted; a lapel sagged open.

He licked the sake bottle and briskly shook the ceremonial bell.

Behold the greasy sweat on his thick nose.

“Honored guest, here is your refill.”

Kumano's crows

The night deepened—Kumano’s crows.
The inn door clattered as they passed by.

An instant—the lamplight blue,
The jet-black wings veiling the bedchamber,
Flapping and beating until wing membranes turned translucent,
They did not vanish.

Now becoming a forest,
In the darkness of intensifying cold terror,
The body suddenly felt as though it would crumble.

“It shall not change,” came a woman’s voice.
Kumano’s Crows groaned.

The Ox-Hour Oath-Petition

Now it came to pass.

Beyond the shrine,
stealthily, the rain began to fall.
"I have sworn," declared a man's voice.

An instant passed—again came whimpering sounds—
The throbbing of convulsed limbs,
Was this a sacrificial victim's agony? Ah—
The reverberation of curses tearing through talismans.

With a thud fell Kumano’s crows.

But lo—what manner of thing was this?

Their bodies were crows, their beaks black.
Beneath the black iron’s heavy weight,
their wings flattened, crushed down with terrifying force.

Lo, solid and numb,
Above the bloodstained brain,
Darkly rigidifying,
The soul gazed upon my corpse,
I

The time was winter, late Frost Month,

The first hour of night, a pitch-dark sea lane.
Genkai Sea, or off Korea’s coast—
Unknown.
Only the roar of waves
thundered as darkness pounded against the windows.

How long had it been since departing Moji?
The night sky grew increasingly sultry,
Rain intermingled with hail raged wildly,
Far across the shallows, thunder rumbled.
Anxiety now—black flags unfurling—

The terror of a ship sailing the Sea of Death,
In the utmost depths of abyssal blackness,
The ship’s bell tolled mournfully at intervals,
The weather’s fierce intensity—
Darkly, my night descended.

In the room, I recognized no faces.
What was this? Since early evening,
the red-haired gauze-faced string player

They rolled their eyes and laughed ceaselessly.
Shadows lay upon his ribs.
Light and shadow ebbed and flowed,
As he drank in the lantern’s blue,
Like the gasping of a striped snake.

It was midnight.
With plague-ridden faces,

The crowd was exhausted and sallow.

Not a soul among them tossed even a single coin.

O violent onslaught—the alarm bells clanged urgently,

The deck resounded with loud footsteps,

“Breach!” “The wind!” “Someone, furl them!” “Knock it down!”

“Throw the ropes!” The sailors acted at once.

Panicked bronze gongs and voices clamored in disarray,

“Spray!” “Don’t let that slip!” “Stand!”

At every hatch—furled, cast, ascended—

Was it the instant they stood in uproar?—swiftly,
the gale’s onslaught arrived swiftly,
half the sail, the mast, the yard,

Snapping, groaning, flapping, collapsing,
The ship heaved—toward the abyss, toward the heavens—
The fierce waves howled with terrifying clamor.
With thunderous roars above and below,
The unrest of each moment remained unvarying,
The cabin trembled with clattering teeth,
Wretchedness at death's brink.
The red-haired one continued to laugh.
Suddenly I saw—what manner of offering?
My knees glared with blinding light.
Warmth emanated from the disheveled-haired woman,
Delicate yet pure features—

Was she dreaming? Her face was pale, unsmiling.

Is it a lover? Ah, were one to embrace—
A soft breath drifted aimlessly,
A cheek brushed by roses' scent.
Ah, even this heart adrift in fleeting exile—
Seared by flames of coherence,
Even the groans of those in agony—
It knew neither sutras nor screams,
In passion's scorching realm of delight,
My spirit panted and burned away.
What calamity struck—a sound erupted as one—
The body flew like a ball.
In a blink, an emergency whistle's shriek—
A unified scream—waking reality,

In an instant, the aft deck—
The desperate struggle blackened,
“Hey, let go! There’s a demon in the lifeboat!”
They raised their oars and blocked the escape route.
The obstacle before my eyes—unknown.
The red-haired one? A sailor? A woman?
They were strangers—as if shouting “Die!”
With a shout, I raised my pistol high—
I fired once, then twice more—
Three times.
Now a crosswave—
Abruptly overhead to the heavens,
The prow tilted halfway—in that instant,

With a clattering clatter, the crystal curtain—

It fell—screams and all.

A whirlpool in the dark—an instant,

Was reduced to dust.—The water-sky split,

Dimly, a white light streaked.

When I opened my eyes, like a mild spring day—

Serenely the sky spread clear,
My surroundings held scattered sparse trees,
A nameless cluster of red flowers bloomed,
A shore where cool morning breezes blew,
Sand larks soared gracefully.
Ah, O God—others know not—
I am my life's pearl.
Still gazing upon perfection,
My entire being filled with soaring joy,
To the great sound I humbly give thanks.

I gave humble thanks to the great sound.

Vomiting blood.

Poppy field—the sun crimson-red,
June’s evening clouds blazed fiercely,
The birds did not sing.
Face like fire.

A youth among blooming flowers,
In black-lacquered young eyes
Filled with the agony of carnal desire,
With a great stride, he turned around in one step.

The wasteland of scorching passion
The light waned pallidly,
Grass and trees alike yellowed to near-death,
How ghastly the night appeared!
With a stifled cry, in that instant he dropped to his knees,
Lungs burst by despair
He sighed—a crimson flower.

The Land Where Citrus Blooms

Southern Land

Ah, return—your homeland's fields bloom with flowers,

In days of youth when May citrus burns gold,

The wind sways through heaven's blue expanse, clouds serenely,

The pale crimson source yearns to be unearthed.

Return—you,

The old house in the forest—ivy and vines blooming true crimson,

Turn back! Where are you—in the northern lands,

The desolate crone tending coffins, her hair streaked white,

Cold invocations; sagacious monks pursued their realm.

Ah—the melancholy sky of beech trees darkened even the sun,

At dusk's gong where Kusuni's tearful eyes grieved,

Field apples crimson-rotted as maggots swarmed.

Return, you—to Tsukushi Plain's rich splendor
White-metal stirrups—the young steed’s knight too turned south,
Itinerant actors, song pilgrims, Reihime, menials,
Picture-devising, hollow visions they ceaselessly refined.
Among them, one person,
Along the highway and the crimson lights of wisteria tea shops
As dusk fell, a flower-swaying horse carriage; the stillness of bells.
After four years—if this evening brought your return too—
In the red haze, a dreaming spirit—lanterns swayed.
If it were morning, you would be a married woman—in the fields, on the hills,
Gather your pale eyes—so forlorn—I was the shore’s

Japanese irises—even the wind cloaked itself in purple
Might I have called your name—that first furtive encounter of youth?
Under the hazy moon, water dreamed faintly,
Ah, pass through thus—the next day too—under sheltering mountain deutzia
If rain—a gold-threaded small raincoat; if sun—dash,
Three steps from the first torii into the field—the colt at hibiscus,
The frost-laden secret door—even that rustled faintly,
To where peonies had yet to shed their petals—skipped lightly with a rustle
A rose-thick path—trod it, and jet-black swallows...
They flew out to the flowering barley fields
Oh, the bush warbler’s chirping
Near the hedge’s base were stealthy footsteps, a slender whistle

The koto stopped, robes rustled—then into the garden,
(They couldn't conceal it.) 'A phantom sound?' (The sky clear,

(They sounded it again.) A smile appeared on cheeks as they floated by,

On the day when pale chinaberry and oak blossoms scattered faintly—

If it were you, you would have lifted your sleeve restlessly.

It was already past noon; children came to Kataoka's field,
They plucked the crimson of early-ripening Dutch raspberries.
The song too grew faint.
—The thatched house where the windmill turned,
May the winds lift high the carp streamers, here and there,
The village women were smothered in the yellow of gardenias,
Steaming glutinous rice for the iris festival preparations.
The quaint charm of the chimaki-wrapping night floated upon their cheeks.
The young man cut evening bulrushes by the water,
Every rustic love too was doomed to fade.

You.
We to the flower fields—

Hidden by the scent of fiery red poppies in evening glow,

Tsutsui-zutsu's parted-haired beloved—

Your eyes burned fierce; my cheeks trembled pressed to yours.

Those childhood memories of days long past—do you know them?

Francesca's love tale—her breast quaked,

A married woman? Or sin? Blood held fire's beauty—

Ferocity, heat, flesh rotting utterly—

Embracing frantically, kissing until death came—

Let us forget—home, society, people—all—

Ah, southern evening sun.

Lovers

Ah, July,

The mountain fire remained unquenched.—As the field of blooming kumquats drew near,

In the night mist of the vineyard where the moon paled,

The bumblebee’s buzzing, the sweetness of fragrance, the exhalation of green leaves—

The temptation of carnal desire burned and festered deeply,

When looked up at, the Seven Stars in the sky shimmered crimson,

Even the southern wind shimmered with sultriness.

Already the hot spring’s silence—the dimly translucent lights through the thicket of Japanese spicebush faded,

The merry talk did not cease.—Steam whitened,

Clove-scented bath, woman’s fragrance—dampness drifted

To my hair—when blown upon, did the glossy grass not grow?

All dew was fire.
White lilies heaved and drooped,

The petals' heat indeed intensifies.
On cheeks, on chests

Ah, the breathless droplets of arrogant pleasure seething

In the embrace—the aura of someone dying, blood and flesh—
they quaked convulsively.

Ah, July—

Suddenly I heard—stealthy footfalls with heated rustling
Within the dense trees by the shore where water-lit branches shone.

Was that approaching figure golden-haired with blue eyes,
Or flaxen locks? Rosy cheeks?

Ah—a lover from bygone days, or some mysterious girl?

In the sweet-scented fantasy of a distant age
My ears burned.
Dazedly, even my eyes grew bloodshot—

My chest ached with scorching passion’s fervor.

The wind now burned.
Dream, reality—footsteps continued unceasingly.

The affliction of flesh—in the heat of bitter milk

If I slept sweating, my heart's core—a peony's tumult.
In an instant—ah, my cheek festered within lilies,
The sound of seven-foot hair rushing—a sudden kiss pressed—
Crimson breath—sea of fire—ah, this chaos!
In the festering light where water veins dragged madly, my whole body melted away.
My body floated.
A single peony scorched waves of blood and sank.

Sacred Pilgrimage

Go then—farewell to the guardian temple of the southern land.
When spring came, the town’s girls bustled with liveliness,
and you too joined in beauty, partaking in vows of love—

Ah, the first pilgrimage—figures in pilgrim robes shaking bells,

South of Ōno, the golden sea of rapeseed flowers shines through

The Chikushi road procession too in madder's hues

On days when the sacred hymns flow resplendently and processions continue unceasing,

Young herb gatherers raised painted parasols against（or amidst）the soft breeze,

Monks and mounted knights alike scorched and scattered,

a warmth where butterflies snagged on sedge hats.

First came Kiyomizu-dera Temple of the Sacred Mountain.

Was this an elegant vision from antiquity's faded scrolls? In cedar depths—

Along the ancient path where pale cherry blossoms scattered and fell,

Rokubu pilgrims, Dōshin ascetics, Waka-ama nuns—all steeped in sorrow.

When the gong struck—even sleeves grew damp in passing encounters.

Sacred pilgrimage—staffs held light—the wardens' chanting voices.

Splendidly, the pilgrims floated forth,

The gorge basked in leaf-filtered sunlight's youthful glow, the wind turning hazy,

In stillness where white spring clouds hovered,

When bush warblers sang, fluttering toward paired sleeves—

To pilgrim robes they flew, pale blossoms scattering in serene brightness.

Thus in the sanctity of the sacred ground stood ancient cedars.
The stone steps through the mist of great trees lay faintly azure,
The profundity where daylight's lamp burned held awe of distant depths.
To the Ema Hall—sedge hats where cherry blossoms scattered once more—
At Otowa Waterfall, even crimson lips performed ablutions.
A town girl with eyes holding youthful thoughts—
In the silence before the hall, bells rang out in rows.
They prostrated—ah—before golden censers' faint smoke—
While lotus canopies stitched through darkness toward dim skies—
The lamp-lights shone in Buddha shrines like stars—
Constant smoldering marked the inner sanctuary's profound sanctity—
The song voices offered by those led by guides also—

Monks made pilgrimage while entrusting wishes for peace in the afterlife—
It was not sin, but an amorous pilgrimage of romantic grace
Where heart and sky both beautifully yearned forth.
Since it was you, even unbidden tears must have sweetly scented the air.—
Or perhaps along moonlit golden paths beneath rapeseed-flower skies
In mist-laden fields where starlight glistened hazily—
The fragrance from temple-hair blown faintly pale hastened joy
As lights emerged in towns—the weeping willow’s tree-shaded path
Where red paper lanterns lined the eaves and peach trees took on rustic air
At Doll Festival—they lowered their eyes in shops’ amber glow
The sanctity of pilgrims who sought to offer gratitude—their youth—
While through evening mist youths concealed their restless hearts

Their smiles held no trace of coquetry; bells too rang faintly.

“Fudaraku!”
When they paraded, each doorway’s elder noblewomen—
Those staffs that would forge karmic bonds on a spring night—
Shook white locks, stumbled, grasped sleeves—such devotion!—
“Go forth! Farewell—to the southern land’s guardian temple!”

Since spring had come, the town’s customs arrayed themselves in beauty:
The maiden journey of love-sworn vows—parting from mothers,
With maidens making dawn-to-dusk flower pilgrimages—
Till soon even clouds churned with wanderers’ sorrows.

When the Fourth Month of scattering blossoms arrived, return to your native village—

Ah, O wife—your hair grown thin with waiting—I kept vigil in longing.

Return to the new chamber—come now, farewell—

Early Third Month swallows, sleeves grazing and glinting

On this fine day, were you too departing, raising your staff?

Namu! O Great Merciful Kannon, deign to protect us,

In themorning wind came—ah—the pilgrims' ceremonial setting forth.

A day of scattering blossoms

The days now Fourth Month—should one go alone—by the water marsh's green cushion,

The body slept softly.
In wind-scattered flowers, among aquatic plants,

Rippling waves—evening perfumed by the fragrant breath of dream-wrinkled lips.

As ever weaving a floral wreath while thinking of you and facing the water,

The mountains hazy in the distance, the walls of the ancient city, even the forest gates—

The profound stillness of white solitude—the sky too had turned utterly azure and pure.

Ah, you—the evening gaze of a dreamer—the shore whitened,

Kihara Michi, village maidens treading faint flowers, rokubu pilgrims, merchants—

Couriers—even those adrift on love’s uncertain path—to whom?—when one gazes upon them,

In the crimson of sunset illuminating clouds, the water-painting's hues too became disordered.
Eyes too sickened; shadows scattered and grew dim with ancient sorrows.

The dusk deepened.
The city’s lamp lighters seemed to hurry about their work.
And so,

In the moldering reed darkness，a grebe’s faint cry.
Ono’s bell tones，

The dusk’s faint glimmer，the dream-bunting’s tranquil elegance—

The wind warmed, cherry blossoms in hair, as the earth’s sighs deepened through the grass—

Dimly, a light glowed at your mansion—the night when the wife’s koto resounded clear,

Floridly, hazily—the ear grew fragrant with those bygone days.

Ah peace—was I then love's lonely child, consecrated to the gods'
The ring had formed.
In the haze's blue, with tranquil heart I contemplated you awhile—
Tearful—should I bury my cheeks in these surrounding flowers and make them weep?

Ah, two people.
You—the late spring city’s splendor, curtains hung with flowers,
The revelry amidst crimson floral carpets spread out—the main avenue shimmered,
A tide-like crowd; the day resounded with robes of refinement thrown into disarray.

Though love may dwell again in the house of flowers, your decadent revelries—

Jasper chambers, silver double doors, ※（王＋累）※（王＋田） room—

Already sated—the flame’s true eye, flesh’s laughter, honeyed kisses,

Paintings and scents and hair and melodies and jewels and bright robes and wine—

How garish! Now I detest it.
(Desires follow your whims)

Ah, you—since I am but a humble child, I shall now return to nature’s nest—

On a day of falling blossoms, I left the city, with rustic resolve never to return again.

The outskirts

Stealthily I walked.
In the fields, white potato flowers bloomed,
The lark’s song drifted through the evening sky,
The south wind blew softly, and the procession of portable shrines grew blue in the distance.

Through such fields on such a day.

Ah, in the dimly lit midst of twilight,

Desultory shō notes—there at the town’s night festival,

Suitengū Shrine’s boat festival music.—Amidst evening voices.

The scent of parched yellow grass; that hair too steamed faintly,

The warm midday's asthma.

Father was angered,

“You’ll watch Kabuki a thousand years from now.”
The child once more,
in sorrow hastening dark tears, gazed at the vast sky,
peeling a nine-year citrus while stifling sobs.
It was sour.
Ah, from that moment—

I began to detest this world.—

Gong

All the people had gone; they had thinned out.

The day dusk deepened at the sacred temple in the forest,

In the faint yellowing glow of desolation,

The single gong-striker

That night I longed—let the fields darken,

Ah, early autumn—the day too turns to eve,

Treading on fallen ears of grain I wandered.