Pathway to Japanese Literature

To My Elder Brother Satō Sōnosuke

Forgotten Spring Poetry Collection Preface

That this poetry collection came to be named *Forgotten Spring* now seems somehow fitting when I consider it in retrospect.
To me—who seems to have forgotten various precious things yet finds nothing remaining upon looking back—the very resonance of these characters, like glimpsing the lining of a beautiful fabric called *Forgotten Spring*, feels as though scraped from the depths of my heart.
It may not be me alone—anyone’s heart might be restlessly pierced by the sentiment of *Forgotten Spring*.
And yet I—true to myself—possess a heart that rushes to proclaim it all the more intensely.
In other words, I—true to myself—tried from time to time to gather something from my daily life, yet perhaps failed to gather anything at all.
At times what I managed to gather were tiles and stone fragments; it might be more accurate to say that other precious things had spilled away.

Another thing: within this poetry collection, I may well say I was startled for the first time to realize how—through that all-too-common experience of losing my own child—I had unwittingly come into contact with such truths of life.
Rather than life being a succession of hardships, for me, life had whispered its ultimate, splendid surprise before the sorrow itself.
To me—struck by such things more intensely than others—it was because this insignificant 'I' had first come to grasp the things of this world—and indeed life itself—before all sorrow.
In my plain life, devoid of even the slightest ripple, it truly was what surprised me most.

That these poems were filled with archaic words and forms to the point of exuding a nineteenth-century aura was by no means accidental for me. Rather than saying I had chosen such old literary language, it might have been more accurate to say I alone swallowed its form and simply muttered it. Even when I saw that the very tone I attempted ten years ago was still being sung with shyness—in the halting manner of a young girl with downcast eyes—I could say there still remained in my heart a considerable budding of lyricism. Yet somehow knowing this might be my last work as lyric poetry filled me with a loneliness akin to gazing up at faded spring blossoms against clouded treetops.

Lyric poetry is akin to aged wine in a cellar; as it grows old, it undoubtedly acquires a taste both mellow and clear.
No matter how many eras pass, he alone remains true—a compact glow like small, glossy poppy pods—and never loses that radiance.
In the youthful years that a poet possesses, all experience an era of writing such lyric poetry.
Therefore, it is impossible to know how long that person will continue to cherish the era of lyric poetry.
Even I still keenly feel emotions continuing from those bygone days.
Moreover, I still wish to secretly pluck and preserve it as one of those flowers that were crushed in life, unknown to anyone.

Early November

Author

Forgotten Spring

*Forgotten Spring*

On what day were they forgotten?

When I swept the dim storage room

Three clumps of bulb seeds,

From the corner rolled out,

Had already sprouted ivory-like buds.

The buds held power

When touched by a finger, glistening with moisture,

All too tenderly

I did not bury them in soil.

film

My house yesterday and today

With lullabies dusk falls

Under the lamp they all came,

They sang rock-a-bye.

The loneliness of this world—oneself being a father—

The loneliness of believing that truth.

The film shifts and changes

In its feather-like swiftness of footsteps

I alone
Though I try time and again to halt,
I cannot even grasp their shadows.

Ma Shouzhen

In the ancient world of Cathay,

There was a courtesan in Jinling named Ma Shouzhen.
To paint orchids, she wielded a delicate brush.
During those rare moments when guests did not disturb her,
she would quietly paint orchid pictures while
immersing herself in elegant ink like a woman of refined delicacy—or so it is told.

Though she had depicted its leaves,
tenderly glistening,
a scent of refinement spilled forth as if overflowing.
Thus in lonely moments,
she sat gazing, inexpressibly.

Elephant.

On an old *sometsuke* dish,
a shadow-blue elephant walked, led by a young boy.
Because this dish was old,
the base warped; the elephant’s shadow became suffused with indigo,
and outside the dish too trailed a lonely shadow.
In such old sometsuke dishes,
the base—solidified as if lacquered in loneliness—lay visible.
At dusk,
the elephant’s shadow was not long.

The shadow shrank, appearing all the more sorrowful.

In Idleness: Part One

The sunlight had grown warm at some point.

The base of my gate was bathed in radiance.

At the base of the gate, I stepped out.
I gazed at the white path.
Vainly I watched the figure depart.
The figure turned at the hedge.
It shrank and trembled.
It appeared distorted.

In Idleness: Part Two

Elegant houses stood lined in rows.

The base of the gates too was swept clean.

At the base of every gate， cherry blossoms formed tight buds．
Within hedges， gentle lullabies lingered．
In sunlit alleys， Chinese artisans bent low—
applying molten gold glazes，
handling ceramic shards．
All stilled into postures of absolute focus．

Chinatown

On the stone platforms of the houses,
Chinese children clustered together as they played.
They arranged glass marbles for ohajiki.
They did not know they were in a foreign town.

There was no forcing of pathos.

I ascended to a certain restaurant.

Having partaken of a Chinese meal,

I tasted the lonely Nanjing tea.

At the writing desk,

I found the act of taking up the brush burdensome.

Heartlessly—what did I intend to write?

Late at night, I lit the lamp.

Respecting mother’s presence, I engaged in writing.

As one who had never wearied,

Now I grew reluctant to take up the brush.

Even were I to write of good and bad,

Why then did I heave such deep sighs?

On a flower-clouded dreary day

I alone grieved as I took up the brush.

Resignation.

Things of surpassing beauty—

Does the heart grow troubled when snow comes and goes, as they say?

The unavoidable resignation of those beyond thirty years

Settled upon me as well,

In mornings and evenings when beautiful things faded from memory.

Thus attuned,

When I looked back upon myself, a smile escaped.

Inexorably unforgettable.

Peach Trees

Around the elementary school, peach trees bloomed.

The beloved children came forth.
Under the peach trees, stained crimson,
They all sang like flutes.

On what day might my child
walk beneath these peach trees?
Wearing tiny shoes,
when would they ever alight upon this earth?
Like a beautiful weaving amidst the dust—

The children made their way home through the late afternoon.

They all looked up at the peach trees,

Yet not one sought to pluck a bough.

They all maintained the spirit of moral discipline.

Late Spring

The neighboring house’s clock always rang its bell while gradually accelerating.

Though it weighed on his mind, there was nothing to be done.
Living through yesterday and today,
It increasingly accelerated.

Wayside Grass

Conversing with my wife
How many years has it been since I last went out to town?

Though I feel no lack of tenderness toward my wife,
when taking her out with me now,
the world feels too blindingly bright.
Though I seldom venture beyond these walls,
I move only along paths where dark hedges press close.

My wife was the one who guarded the house.
She had truly ceased venturing out side by side with anyone.

Childlike Heart

Since childhood,
I sought to create a beautiful garden
while planting small stones and grasses by my house's gate.

I knew not the passing of spring’s long days.

Now that I was grown,

Still this lingering in my heart—

I went out into the garden and moved stones of pleasing form.

In the rustling of winter bamboo, my heart was laid bare.

I know no weariness.

While performing such solitary, quiet tasks alone,

I washed my hands and turned to my desk.

Why should my wife and child know this heart?

Why would I speak of it to anyone else?

In my house's garden, various small plants flourished,
All had once borne flowers without exception—
Now I no longer favor blossoming things.
What I favor lacks fragrance—
Only deep-hued evergreens.

Ming Dynasty pottery

I ventured into town.
I searched through shops that dealt in old porcelain.
All day long I touched cold pottery with my hands.
Does my heart dwell in such loneliness?
Who could know this heart that scours for ceramics?
And to whom should I speak of it?

Secretly holding a Ming Dynasty jar,
I quietly made my way back home.

Forbidden Flower

If one finds beauty in a single wife,
I no longer let my heart stray toward maidens.
Even in such times, ere long I would come to you,
The friend who spoke thus—
His desolate countenance floated before me.
Yet it holds a resonance of truth.
People's possessions:
Unattainable luster,
With a venerable beauty,
Like flowers in distress…

To deem longing for a single wife a sin and transgression,

A world with harsh edicts is indeed lonely.

Father and mother.

When I cherished my child and myself,

I remembered my aged mother.

It felt as though I had reached out to touch that heart—

Who would ever deny being a father in this world?

Truly, they—like us—

As if nurturing what could scarcely grow—

I too shall raise this weak child.

One time,

In times when my heart remained unsettled,

I found solace in handling the calligraphy brush.

Not knowing what I had drawn.

The Song of Checkered Cloth

——To Hagiwara Sakutarō——

Today I ventured into town.

For your beloved child

I sought and purchased beautiful checkered cloth.

Since your child is a girl,

I did think that figured crepe would be preferable,

Though I tried to exchange the bundle I held,

If there were a baby in my home too,

To send only to your child

Why should I neglect my own baby,

I now held a single bolt of habutae silk

I selected checkered cloth that was not too showy

I carried the two bundles.

I walked through the bustle of Ueno Hirokoji.
As I was jostled in the crowd,
I recalled the time I had walked with you, pressed close,
when I had already come to think of myself as a father in this world.
My eyes grew dim and moist.
Countless times I adjusted my hold on those bundles with such loneliness.
Your beloved child—compared to mine—
she was an older sister by one year.
I repeated these lonely thoughts in my heart,
impatiently hastening to send it to you already.
I became a passenger once more.
Soon, at your house with its gentle lullabies,
may my checkered cloths arrive there.

The flowers of my house

Flute

In times of sorrow, I played the flute.

I played it thinly and quietly.

In the places where that flute's sound and hue might reach,

Surely there must be someone who would hear the flute's tone,
The cold-feathered one quietly inclined its ear.
I thought of holding a cane,
This wretched flute of mine, so unlike myself—
When would it finally fall silent?
If this were a flute to summon river deer,
The water's deepest depths would answer,
Yet my flute faded and dwindled into the sky.

Sigh.

In my home the lullabies had completely ceased,
The people did not speak,
Remained listlessly still,
Did nothing but sigh.

Both yesterday and today ended.

While eating my meal,
suddenly pricking up my ears at some sound,
I would often meet faces and grieve.
"If my child had lived,
I would dress them in cool lace clothes—"
I spent my days speaking only of what could not return.

Midnight.

I surrounded the coffin adorned with every flower.
I spent the rainy midnight.

To comfort the small souls of this mortal world,
incense resembling long smoldering blue-green grass
I ceaselessly offered.
In that seat I too existed as a lowly father,
attempting to nurture unraisable things.
The day-and-night weariness and loneliness—I too joined their ranks.

Socks.

I had them put on wool-knitted socks.

And put in beloved toys as well.

I stored straw hats and straw sandals as well.
With stones I struck the coffin.
And thus I had them take it out into the field.
Because I was a father,
that I was not one to join the funeral procession

I alone remained
As I gazed at the garden and such,
I could bear it no longer.

I chewed tobacco and wept.

My House’s Flowers

When I returned from outside,

I carried a package of small toys

I passed through my home's gate with eager steps,
now my small child had passed away.
No one came out to greet me.

Mother would always say quietly, quietly,
She did not fear the baby’s eyes opening.
Therefore I quieted those accustomed footsteps of mine.
Even were I to open the lattice from outside,
There was no longer any child who would sleep.
And thus the flowers of my house scattered.
An unrelenting heart
If my child were here,

In summer I would take my child to cool Karuizawa
And dress them in clothes no less fine than others'.
I who write heartless poor prose and live out my days—
Even now, spending days as if stupefied,
I cannot accept all those who are gone.
Though people all say, "You must resign yourself,"
Truly, this heart that tries to resign itself—
This act of forcing it down—
Is foolish beyond compare.
O unrelenting heart—
Abide forever.

Saishōin Jishō Dōji

The morning sun cast its light,
within shōji casting green shadows,
the child lay deep in sleep.
When I peered into that room from the garden,
only the white-faced clock’s sound lingered quietly.
No one remained.
Yesterday I thought to buy a nursemaid’s carriage,
if I went to Yokohama too I would obtain something of graceful form.

As I stood up,
in the room where no one remained, only the morning sun shone brightly.
There was not even a single shadow.

Visiting Child

An evening tinged with autumn

At my house’s gate stood a single Visiting Child.

Carrying the portable kitchen to exhaustion,

Reading the nameplate bearing my name time and again,

The Visiting Child did not attempt to leave.
That small shadow shrank,
it did not seep away into the tatami of my room.
And thus every night the Visiting Child came.
Night after night, the Visiting Child became ageless,
and loneliness became my comfort even as...

Vestige

To gaze upon another's child—
How could anything console my heart?

Another’s child remains another’s child
My Vestige is not to be passed on
What reason then to envy?
Though I think this way, another’s child grows plump—
When I see that adorable form—
This frustration claws at straw mats

my child who passed away leaving no trace

When I think where my child might be now—

Having done what cannot be undone,
Having been unable to even cry out—

Carp Streamers

Blue-green fish-shaped

Erecting carp streamers too,

I commemorated my child,

All that I had done thus had become things that had passed—and yet

Now I wrapped those carp streamers

I hid them in a place unseen.

Unable to gaze upon the fleeting spring—
Divided the garments—
"Do not take hold of those sleeves."
Soaked into crimson eyes—
There was no help for it.
Yet I stammered these words to my wife—
"Do not take hold of those sleeves," I said—
What sleep had resided within these garments?
The breathing that had been so peaceful...
What sleep could there be?
To give to poor children—I dispatched people—
Now all had been divided and given away.

Where...

In the bathhouse of my house,
I lit the lamp.
Mother alone soaked in the bath.
She grieved over the child that had been on her lap.
How many times must I have touched—
the plump and rounded form of my child—
Recalling that chest, I wept.

Autumn Puddles

In the morning formed clear puddles,

Dew-like pooled the rain’s remnants,

On days steeped in such melancholy I withdrew silent behind

Shoji screens white and starkly shut tight—

Thus had we truly become those who speak no more.

In a dream-like existence,

Was I the only one remaining,

When I peered into the puddle, trees were reflected,

Yet my child remained unreflected….

Ancient Moon

In the verdant shade
All wandered through green shadows,
Bending cheerfully along the blue-green fence.
I too had spent days in the town’s dim lodgings—
No girl ever came visiting.

The youths of this modern age,
White hands clasped tight,
Chattered merrily in the fence’s shadow.

I want no part of this.
Yet that very denial—
How violently it rends my thoughts!

Koi

In the turbid pond,

Crimson koi clustered together,

All twisting their melancholy forms.

I gazed intently at those thick bodies,

The harsh sunlight beating on my head,

While casting my heart into the murky waters -

I found myself sinking into gloom.

Because they were too crimson, too vivid in their sorrow.

Gazing at Trees

I disliked arranging flowers in my room,

let alone keep flowers meant to adorn the garden,

Though I found them beautiful,

what was fragile and fleeting was the very heart of blooming flowers,

Rather, the moss-covered garden trees'

sorrowful forms when no wind stirred,

like an aged face peering in,

I remained there, palm pressed against that bark.

Heart

I have sold the budding of my heart.

It has become an age of desolate tatsuki.

I do not know how many times they have deceived me.

How many times to the same book

As if laying bare my gaze,

I had nurtured lonely thoughts,

Such a heart has grown cold and sunken,

I am to be captured thus—

Poetic Sentiment

Poetry grows more precious with age.

Choosing old words of heart,

I attempted to seek lushness,

Truly, my heart had long been desolate.
With this sun-bleached self of today,
how many times did I sit facing the desk
only to try immersing myself in poetry and hesitate once more?

The impoverished one

Because I was too impoverished,

each time I recalled that,

day by day my heart grew more wretched.

That day—the things I had wanted at the market—

today—abruptly seeking—

I did not comfort my heart.

I quietly tended yet did not cherish.

Those who were too impoverished are always thus.

My heart became something inexpressible and endless...

Shutting myself in the room,

In my room,

There were only cold ceramics gathered.
As I touched them,

I always feel as though I'm touching rain,
I sometimes turn toward such cold things,
I detest myself trying to touch,
To something a little warmer—
O my solace, quietly bestow your thoughts.
That's what I think, but
Still, my hands remain coldly touching.

There's nothing I can do.

Camel

In faint sunlight,

The camel is tethered.

Like an aged person,

Munching away，it ate all day long．

The tent resembled a snow-filled sky．

It was hung grayish and sorrowfully．

The camel uttered no words．

The camel moved its mouth ceaselessly all day long．

Mayflies

Shiobara Road
Along the Shiobara Road in deep autumn,
my bicycle dashed onward,
and unbeknownst to me, darkness deepened.

Already dusk had fallen.
I trod on fallen leaves.
Overlooked the fire glimmering faintly on the mountain,
Became stitched into the water's reverberations.
The surface of my bicycle too grew damp with night dew.

In the capital—indifferent to night and day—
the weariness of my desolate works,
to my heart's content,
I soaked in thermal waters to calm my heart.

After the rain

Again I came among the throng.
I stood perplexed and halted.
After the rain, in muddy Asakusa—for what purpose...
What purpose had brought me so far?

Crimson flags stood in multitude,
Drenched by rain, their hues had deepened.
That crimson hue does not leave my heart.
Though wedded, today I stand alone as one forsaken.
Having feigned indifference,
Clinging to the paving stones, I beat upon them.
I let my heart wander here and there.
If one were to call this astonishing,
What could one call pure?
The lingering taste of wandering clings.
Things without a trace

Both yesterday and today,
The woman from the film remains unforgettable.
Even as I scold my childish heart,
An indigo shadow falls.
I visited the dark hut.
Things vanished without trace—
What do I seek?
Truly, my wife too seeks such things—
In pursuing a woman of ancient times,
Unknowingly, I ceased to censure.
For she being an ancient woman,

Perhaps her heart finds peace in this.

Because they are things that vanish without a trace,

in the human heart that longs for splendid things,

why should there be any blame?

Mayfly.

Truly we

do nothing but compose hollow mayflies.

Why my name that was here yesterday—

That which could be boasted before others today—
The mother and wife who would rely on me
And thus I would come to know my sorrow.

Bush warbler.

The bush warbler of my house
Even at night, it still sang facing the lamp.
As it was still young,
It often stammered in its song.

And reverting back to song,
it repeated desolate days.
No one found it charming,
there must indeed have been those who found it desolate.
In the air,
I found myself reluctant to compose my prose,
because the circumstances were sorrowful.

Today again I came to see the hippodrome.

Within it traversing the sky—

There was a Russian woman called Mateni,

Her plump body clad in an undergarment,

With her exposed hands and feet,

She swam circling through the air,

She appeared helplessly precarious and sorrowful.

Truly my writing too was like this.

If it were a life-risking endeavor,

If only my heart might flourish.

Why sighing did I gaze?

When traversing the sky

Her body hung suspended in the sky,

When a person's body appears in the sky,

How beautifully soft,
her foot sharply arched back, how sorrowful it appeared,
how desolate it appeared.

Moon

A certain person went to the world of the moon,
But having been left all alone,
Finding it too lonely, they eventually returned,
And inscribed this on a fish’s skin…

Autumn Sunlight

Autumn sunlight—shadows thinning.

Yururu is but the shadow of bamboo.

On damp earth, the melancholy shadow of—

With each passing moment of time,

Trembles westward and passes.

Such a heart dwells even within me.

Shadow layers upon shadow.

And thus, as if having forgotten the autumn sun,
Composedly I sat.

Chrysanthemums

For the first time, I found beauty in white chrysanthemums.

Though there had never been a time when I did not think them beautiful,

today, beside the stone-rubbed Hundred Longevity Diagram,

While arranging white chrysanthemums,
I came to think this beautiful for the first time.

Mother and Child

Mother, my mother.

Why did I come to you—

When did I come to you unnoticed?
No matter how much I think about it, I cannot understand.
If you were my true Mother,
why I was born into this world,
you must explain it to me clearly

Every day in my mind I observed your body.
But I did not know where I had come from.
I stared at you every day.

Like a mysterious god,
I want to believe each word you speak.
Mother—let me hear
why I was born into this world—

“No, my child.
You must not ask such things.
You need only grow up gentle and kind.
When you grow up, you’ll naturally come to understand everything.”
I licked away even Mother’s very soul.
Until Mother wasted away completely.

“The more you grow,”
“Mother becomes worn to tatters.”
“That’s how Mother wastes away.”

Mother was now someone no one turned back to look at.
Mother’s heart and body—
And in time she would lose even the strength to lift you up.
She would no longer be able to sing lullabies.
But child, grow large without heed—
Until Mother’s breast milk ran dry.

You licked every last bit away.

Mother, my mother.
Why do you go out alone to the gate?
And what do you mutter all day?
Why must I go out into the cold?
I want to sleep soundly, yet...
Yesterday and today you sit on the same stone platform
And must I hear the same thing?
When I open my eyes,
Why do you stare at me so?

You must not wake me.
As soon as I doze off, you immediately rouse me.

And the same things over and over.

You mutter things I don’t understand.

If you were my real Mother

Please don’t carry me out to that cold gate.

Child,

You resemble Mother well.

I feel as though I’ve heard your exact words twice before.

No, no.

You must not resemble.

You must not speak in such a way.

You must resemble only Mother.
You must not resemble anyone.

Oh, only Mother—

And you must not resemble others in the slightest.

You are Mother’s child.

You are Mother’s precious treasure, the only one in this world.

And you must become exactly as Mother’s heart desires.

Mother, my mother.

I resemble you.

I am the very image of your beautiful heart.

I resemble no one.

I will lick you clean.

In exchange, I don’t want to go out to that cold place.

When I go out there, I hear a dismal coughing sound.

I dislike that sound.

A gloomy, lonely sound seems about to start any moment now.

“No, my child.”

“That is not the sound of coughing.
It is the sound of water.
Mother likes the sound of water.
Mother’s heart finds peace when she hears that sound.
Child, you must not listen to that.
Stay held by me forever.
And suckle your milk.
You must grow big without concern.
Child,”

I’ve given you everything already.

You must not look at my face so sorrowfully.
Mother’s precious body also
And her heart too,
I’ve given you everything—everything already.
He looked at late-blooming flowers.
He looked at late-blooming flowers.

On the purple branches were white spots.
Upon closer inspection, they resembled designs painted on pottery.
It was a white flower of some Chinese-style variety.
The petals' surfaces lacked tranquility.

The petals were curled and tinged with pale yellow.
Was there even a fragrance?
Even when drawing near, one could not quite catch its scent.
It appeared as if carved from Shiro Kōrai.
A creation of the distant late autumn sun,

Having recalled something, it abruptly attempted to bloom,
but the cold prevented it from opening properly,
there was little joy.
Because of that, they appeared curled and sorrowful.
On the speckled branch,
the flowers were blooming late, their receptacles short.
Having remained attached to the branch for a long time,

While the flowers had forgotten to scatter,
they had rotted away.
The late autumn warmth must have been ending.
The day turned to frost, devoid even of the dream called late-blooming flowers.

Moth and Mother

The night was still long,

Filled with the scent of a night so long and deep in grass.

The oil lamp was lit in the middle of the room, yet

Wouldn't even a mother from the countryside come to visit?

And then a large moth had come
and settled on the oil lamp's shade.
Could it be laying eggs?
Its wings were vibrating so finely.
I should approach quietly for a better look.
Or perhaps it came drawn to the faint light -
that might have been its only hope.
Moths aren't creatures born at night, I suppose,
yet why do they only fly after dark?
Ceaselessly fluttering its wings -

It must surely be laying eggs.
If I were to look more quietly and carefully,
the moth was walking while dropping yellow eggs—
I might be able to see it.
In such an interminable night,
had it been laying eggs all night long,
we would have remained silent—
might we not end up coated in moth-wing dust?
And then lie sleepless...

The scent of deep grass lingered—the kind of night
when a country parent might steal to the front door.
Holding a bright oil lamp—
wouldn't its light spill across the earthen floor?

Tedious boat's pace

Even though it was raining this hard,
there was no need for me to go outside, and yet—
I headed out into the wet road,
and at most bought a single pack of tobacco,
gazed at the rain-soaked horses, cars, and people,
and turned back to the road I had come from.

The sad heart of today that I dragged along as I walked, with no one watching.
Now, what was I supposed to grasp for?
Houses, horses, cars, people, and trees were all gloomily drenched.
I too was walking amidst it,
Above even a single river blurred by rain,
The rain-hued boat that had lost its cheerfulness was drenched.
Even a boat that had once been so lively -
What lonely footsteps those were.
On a day in a life that knew no relief from boredom,
Even my sociable self,
Blending in among horses, cars, people, houses, and bridges,

I walked along with heavy steps and a sullen expression.

Small birds

At the base of Mount Asama,

A tennis court edged in green
Even at midday still held dew,
It lay folded like blue silk fabric.
On the sleek surface of the court
Within the net where white balls danced
Small birds with differently colored wings were running.

I went out to the court's edge every day. How pleasant such ball games must be for one's life—to me, who had never engaged in lively play since birth, I did not even know how enjoyable those things could be. I merely watched the dancing white balls. Beyond the white balls' divide, a beautiful pair would come each day. Their rose-hued cheeks sunburned, glistening like straw-wrapped apricots, that white little bird would dart away,

At times, as if being hoisted up to the sky,
she smiled while playing in harmony with the ball
and like a flower, tinted the green beyond the court.
The green grass outside the court, for the pair who came to play with fluttering balls,
kept smearing green leaves onto their white clothes.
Balls clustered around them,
pressing against their bodies for a time,
causing rose-colored flowers to bloom.
The daughter remained there in the grassy field
as if listening to some wish,
immersing herself and emitting fragrance as much as she could.
I saw a harmonious parent and child again.

The mother and father and daughter were at court's edge—
quietly running across its bounds.
I watched them trail like shadows.
Daughter tended mother while father tended daughter,
chasing after white balls' fleeting traces.
Perhaps their foreignness made it so—
this scene gripped my heart with loneliness.
Rainy days brought none:
No crimson-breasted songbirds came,
no flower-scented straw hats lingered—
only plateau's cold rain persisted,
through September's first frail light.

The flock of small birds had faded into shadow before one knew it.
I was mottled with human shadows,
at the tennis court where no beautiful foreign women could be found,
before one knew it, grass had begun to overgrow,
I gazed in the cold rain.
On this mountaintop where autumn and winter move simultaneously,
I could only hear the countless colorful birds crossing the sky.

The seagull's blue speckles
In the azure waves and winds beyond the Dragon Palace,
When he thought of soon meeting Princess Otohime,
After becoming so overjoyed he could no longer contain himself,
Unable to hold back, Urashima Taro let out a sneeze.

Air-filled bubbles on the sea's surface
Many burst and popped
Collided with the back of a passing seagull
And became nothing but blue speckles.

At the village elementary school,

Within those blue speckles

They found an old castle on the very brink,

Inside the castle were various fish,

They again lived within various rooms.

And after showing it to the students and keeping it there,

When the teacher gave a half-baked explanation,

The blue speckles vanished without a trace.

However, no one knew it.

The seagull was kept, but still did not know.

Persimmon

A persimmon fell again with a plop.

What I had been looking forward to ends up like this every morning—persimmons fall heedlessly，sometimes as many as two or three．In the end，not a single one remains；they might all rot and fall away—there’s no telling．When that happens，there will be nothing left to anticipate．In the evenings，they resonate by the pillow，they fall with a gloomy sound．“They’ve fallen again，haven’t they？”“They’ve fallen so many．”Hardly any remain on the branches now．The wife too remarks with concern．But those that fall every day in such a manner—they are persistent things，but there’s nothing to be done．

Persimmons are like strangely heavy heads—
they fall with a plopping sound.
Behold those star clusters that once hung so thickly—
now only three or four remain at the top.
All that effort...
After all the women waited so eagerly for them to ripen and glow!
Yet even the persimmons themselves seem helpless.
Especially when someone like me approaches to mourn them—
there's nothing to be done about that either.

Well, there was nothing to be done about that.

Along the fence
Along the still-green fence
The quiet road of the backstreets continued.
Every house had a modest garden,
In the garden, rainwater had pooled after the rain.

On the clear water rested the shadow of a tree.
In such a scene,
Was an unmoving autumn enclosed within?
I felt as though my steps quietened.
On moisture-laden soil
The hedge leaves were dense.
In such a scene
I suddenly pricked up my ears.
So quiet it couldn't be heard,
The sound of someone trimming their nails could be heard.

In such a scene,

The lonely sound of trimming shell-like nails continued.

Nails—it is said they grow long when the heart grows heavy or when melancholy lingers.

It is said they grow long when one dwells in gloom—

The wife was quietly cutting those nails on the veranda.

Ants

Ant holes stretch on.
Like a dim subway,
Deep within the earth, darkness is stretched taut.
Green alleys, towns, and every crossroads—

Even in places where bright lights were lit

Dark holes stretched on.

Beneath the city's hard cobblestones too,
the outer framework of the large dining hall—
even on the white-tanned surface—
Ants, even in their lonely holes,
to green palaces, princesses, maidservants and such—
to palaces arrayed like stars—
carried the summer day's bright offerings.
From where the houses stood,
exposing their desolate forms even to human eyes while
lining up fragrant peach-colored carriages,
they ran across the white-glittering soil.
They hurried like fire.

Dance

It was an evening with a Dance.

Foreign songbirds like heaped-up roses,
In beautiful apricot-colored undergarments,
All steeped in Japanese night dew,
Filled the theater corridor with their fragrant presence.
Earrings, necklaces, fans, handbags—
Peach, green, cream—

All those winged colors were moving.

Among those foreign women,

Japanese girls of modest stature like white minnows

wore supple gauze,

stiffly arched the tips of their shy white tabi,

and walked quietly with seeming bashfulness.

On striped garments gliding smoothly over the curves of their bodies,

they all hid small lips in their fans' shadows.

The Japanese girls' beauty captivated hearts.

They uniformly wore expressions declaring life's pleasures—

how despicable poverty was—

maintaining such countenances

They aligned their beautiful footsteps.
Some were drinking blue sherry wine.
The flocks of princesses, small birds, and peacocks
soon saw Pavloa’s dance.
A sheet of dusty Western paper was rolled up,
swaying and dipping to the music’s rhythm.

Where had it come through and alighted?
On Pavloa’s—sheathed in flesh-colored leggings—
long，supple leg-tips，

A single blue grasshopper had landed and was struggling.
Unaware of this and holding flowers was Pavloa’s

The person's kind greeting made everyone happy.

In the grassy depths of Japan's hot early autumn,

Pavloa, who was applying skin powder,

was startled by a single blue grasshopper that had landed on her knee.

After discarding it through the window,
she remembered having seen it at some rundown show.
Had that been in Russia?

Was it America?
Was it London?

Or was it when she danced in the dining hall of a summer resort?

She couldn't recall.

Outside the theater,
peacocks, princesses, small birds and their kind in drunken spirits,
baring their skin to the night dew of early autumn,
were attempting to board carriages and automobiles.

It was a hot night with neither moon nor stars.