Pathway to Japanese Literature

Taira Fragments

In the autumn wind

I chanted

At the grass-door hut at the end of Echigo Road

And again came the sounds of autumn insects

Sound of waves

Setting sun

Thus I

In the autumn wind

Only one

My body's shadow

I urged it on

Horse-chasing insect

The horse-chasing insect chased horses

Ah, the sorrow of poetry!

At the edge of things

Crape myrtle

Crape myrtle

Crape myrtle
Blooming at the grass hut’s door
The peerless day grows distant
Even the eternal spirit’s essence turns to ashes

Late Autumn Shower: Four Chapters

White hibiscus

To people, I'll not show my face—

This day's heart turned to stone—

Though there be reasons, I deemed it acceptable.

Evening's white hibiscus

Sudden shower

A sound arose; looking revealed a sudden shower.

Again they lingered—the day’s falling shadows.

Autumn hushed even the town lanes.

Only distant evening cicadas

The late autumn rain too,

The late autumn shower's rain turns crimson
Ah, the day the eaveside flowers fall.
A brush dipped in white—
In ink too, flowers fell—ah, this day.
Alone, without skill.

Alone, skilless Echigo traveler's

Even were I to grieve over the world, what could I do?

I purchase two gō worth at the market.

Forsaken by the late autumn shower's guest

Hearthside: Four Chapters

Crimson—
The crimson flowers all scattered.

All good friends are distant.

Godless Month, the month of late autumn showers.

In last year's seat I sit again.

All too swiftly,

All too swiftly a lifetime passed.

To know heaven's will—this alone.

When I gathered fallen leaves in the woods

My waist bent weary—O person of the late autumn shower!

My song

Those who reviled my song—
I let them say what they would.
Even ladling cloudy sake at the window,
a companionless day’s passing.
Again.

Those who revile my song—
How should I acknowledge my own?
Their denials too came thick as hail.
I covered my ears and feigned deafness.

Lingering Crimson: Four Chapters

Lingering Crimson

Detested and despised latter days'

Even the town lanes today were filled with longing.

All day long, the sound of the sea resounded.

Few flowers remained at the eaves.

Evening cicada

The millet ears stood tall as the moon emerged.

Autumn: Echigo Road’s evening cicada.

Evening cicadas—wildly,

At sea to cry—how poignant

Bell striker

A cool bell only in the distance

The bell striker struck and fell silent.

Let last night's lament wait again,
Afterwards, the breaking of a voiceless night.

Lamplight

When the pages were covered, at once—

A bird's cry crossing to this side.

Transient things, one and all—

Night—a lone cry’s destination?

Sudden Hail: Four Chapters

Hail strikes.

Do they sleep through this hail-pelting sound?

Mountain hare, mountain dove, wild pheasant.

The hermitage master sits alone,

Never mending torn dreams.

From open seas they come—

From open seas they come: pine voices.

Screeching across eaves,

Brief—scattered cries fade.

Hailstones wander destinationless.

My garden’s

My garden’s hailstone-struck rocks

Over pines racing seaward.

Three daily at the harbor—ships’

Seven nightly after departure.

Hail falls.

In hail-battered garden—trimmed—

Trembling—inserted—

One chrysanthemum stem; two blooms.

Like orphaned things drawing near.

Rustic Libations: Miscellaneous Verses

The sun does not set.

The sun does not set—my cup
Fill only the dregs—all else is lies.
Sing my own poems.
The moon shall soon settle upon the pines.
The cup—

The cup is small yet
the sole evening companion I trust.
Most deceive others outright—
adrift in this world with no course in sight.

Lying by the hearth

I lay by the hearth and harbored sorrow.
I stretched out the cold arm-pillow.
The cup yearned for being and non-being.
A voice more mysterious than birds ceased.

Gassan's ridge
When I left Gassan's ridge
I too abandoned the hermitage.
Laugh at human offspring's folly—
No friend dwells even in distant lands.
A modest measure—
Lost in modest drink's haze,
A bridge crossed without destination.
Though the lamp burns bright,
The deserted station at river's end—
Hail strikes the hat.
The sound of hail striking hats—
The full moon soon casts no shadow.
The surf's roar lies far away.

The sole beacon—the lighthouse on the pier.
Posthumous fame—
Posthumous fame must indeed exist,
Yet pales beside a cup of wine alone.

My teacher had thus deigned to say.
I followed my teacher’s words.

Paulownia Flowers: Four Chapters

I stepped out through the gate.
On a stone a few steps from the gate,
a single stalk of blue pampas grass sprouted.
Last year's single stalk of pampas grass—
impermanence dwells nowhere but in the human world.

Spring waning,

Spring waning, departed seabirds

If snow falls, I shall return again.

In Hamamatsu, waves undulate endlessly.

How empty—the sun reigns high.

The ama divers' burning

A single column of smoke from the ama divers’ fire

Columns rise both in the distance and here.

Paulownia flowers bloom next door.

These days my garden eggplants

At the hill's edge
Paulownia flowers bloomed at the hill's edge.
The hearth still lacked its lid.
The pipe aged; the owner too aged.
No heart truly departs this world.

All mountains are white.

All mountains are white.

The year grows cold, yet all things are new in the morning.
The Yangtze lies distant and clear.
The passing of a small boat goes unseen.

I became a guest in Echigo.

My heart finds no lasting joy.

Mothers without husbands

Children without fathers

Sojourners without homelands

Those in threadbare garments filled the village.

The sound of sudden hail swept past.

Though the sunlight was clear once more,

how often sorrow thus came and went!

One must not follow those of profound heart.

Barely raising a picture of spring flowers,

they heard songbirds behind the house.

Spring, they say.

Spring, they say.

Spring, they say.

Who saith

The moon ariseth.
The day too darkeneth.
The moon ariseth.

Clouds drooped.

Yet tonight—the spring night’s cool curtain—

The curtain hung damp and heavy.

Croak croak,

Croak croak—the frogs sang by the water’s edge.

Ah, distant frogs

First frog

O traveler

To homeland

O traveler

To homeland

Upon fields with no return

The moon ariseth.

The fragrance of things—

Croak croak,

Croak croak again.

Ah, first frog.

Distant frogs.

Spring, they say.

Spring, they say.

Who saith—

Croak croak,

Croak croak—the frogs sing by the water’s edge.

The close of Yayoi
The close of Yayoi—Koshi lies snowed upon.

Snow fell.

Snow accumulated on the treetops, yet

Even the flowers did not hide.

They leapt and clung to the other side of the screen.

Was that a red firefly?

The fragrant red plum blossoms by your window

With the traveler a thousand leagues away—

Were years taking form?

The roaring sea was heard that day too.

Thus became the traveler.

Having passed there,
Only this—a glimpse that sighed “Ah!” to the flowers.
Fragrant your window-side red plum blossom—
Winter’s brought

Winter brought
Spring has come
On this young grass

Let us sit.

The sea brought

Because it's sand.

Dances upon the sand.

Pine forest

Infinite time—

Came and lodged

The cape's shadow—

It was the inlet.

Wind brought

Two sails

Loosened the sail ropes

Suddenly fell

Those things'

It was one of them.

Farewell our

Even our conversations

Wayfarers' Fragments

Pipe

Whose pipe is the universe, I wonder.

Last year's spring turned to ash.

This year's spring lights its fire.

Whose pipe is the universe, I wonder.

Twilight Sea

What culmination does this hold?

This is the twilight sea.

All waves cease upon the sand.

A certain day.

In a small ink-grinding pond,

The sky was blue, the flowers crimson.

The midsummer sea churned restlessly though,

The sounds of morning arose first.

Last night named the tea kettle Kikaku.

Kikaku's whisper.

Cicadas' urgency.

Pine-needle grass.

The white flower of the pine-needle grass.

As one who faces the flower—

What could one lament?

All have bent to one direction.

Grass seeds'

The light fluff of grass seeds—

In the gusting wind, they fly high away.

I went out into the garden and sat among ceramics.

I too contemplate the distant.

A day in vain
I spent a day in vain.
Truth overwhelms the heart indeed.

At the extremity of Echigo Road, the mountain range
like a lonely sky that brooded—
By reason.
By reason, I grew old on the journey.

By reason I have no home.
By reason song exists.
Swinging songs without regret.
Sanctum.
For that is my song’s sanctum.

How?

Is it not sacred?
Long inlet mist too,
Flower seeds—
Though I build a jeweled pedestal,
What shall I do with today’s sorrow?
Fleeting though it is, this crimson—
Relying on flowers, I sow seeds—

Amidst the Autumn Wind

Noon's dream

In the long-inhabited mountain I had dwelt

Walked the well-trodden path back and forth.

The murmur of a long-familiar mountain stream

The primal source of ajiamaki waters

I pushed through the grass.

I leaped over crickets.

I bent my nape and swallowed the edge.

This welled up—

August’s midday coolness

Truly did I think—

I dwelt in deep mountain forests

The pathos of beasts in such state—

Horns high and legs slender,
Eyes gentle in aspect—
The dappled-white deer's
Dawn-dusk lingering through tree-hidden paths.
Though I wear no beast's form,
Now verily unto world and humankind:
Moldering books smolder unquenched
Where white clouds churn skyward.

I merely think.

As good companions, we too shall dwell.

Firewood gatherer
Drawing water from the mountain stream
Would that I sow flower seeds in the garden.

The folly of broad daylight and dreams—

Should I not long to know this?

Daytime dreams, summer dreams, solitary dreams.

Facing the sea

Facing the sea, white lilies—

The Tametomo lilies bloomed.

The fragrance of flowers and the scent of the tide,

Tidings from those of old,

In the instant of this day's blowing wind,

All things left no trace—

Rather than trusting in things eternal
Today's sorrow came to be thus.

Yet the blue intensifies—

Deepening still—the azure sky and sea—

The transience of all worldly things—

A heart refusing acquiescence—

Beach morning glory

Ah—this flower beneath daylight's gaze

Beach morning glory in the sea breeze—
hue faint and ephemeral—
All sake cups tilting—
Parting sake upon grass leaves

On the deep indigo sea’s sand,
poured and soaked—the cool breeze’s
rising was broken—
That summer day’s journey went on—

A day’s dream with no known destination?
Traceless matters I shall not undertake.
All things longed for are ephemeral.
setting sun

Into the field to pick wildflowers
Upon the dimly lit wall I have hung
Drenched dew and pollen

I suddenly composed verses of what clung to my sleeve.

Hold fast to stillness within stillness.

Think not now of standing above others.

The white-eye sang and departed.

A crimson setting sun upon pine branches.

Ama's Narrow Path

When the wind blew, they parleyed with the wind.
When rain fell, they bathed in the rain.

Thrush in the garden—autumn arrives.

In sorrowless days of old, I too—
The mountain path I crossed lightly with my staff—
I suddenly think of the bird’s manner—how...
Weary in the world, propping elbows—
At the grass door, cloudy sake drawn—
Without friends, I pour a cup—
Yesterday and today, the sea—high waves.
A school of sharks passes straight through the sluice gate.
The ama’s slender path, so they say

Rain Dove

A morning dove comes to the pine and coos
——Rain’s dove. Autumn’s dove.

Having come at last on this long-awaited journey,
I dreamed by the seaside -
Of children sold away,
Of moon and camel and dark child.
If this be dream, then thus let me wake.

If it is a dream, why should I lament?
Is that my soul?
Through the night desert, not returning...

That’s why the dove coos like that.

Flying from the blue sea,

A morning dove comes to the pine and coos
——Autumn’s dove. Rain’s dove.

My hand now
My hand now
Otomeko's
Upon Otomeko’s shoulder

The scent of bread from the hearth

Upon a new morning's height,

My hand rested awhile.

Now your profound breath

Stirred the warm garment's shoulder—

The distant sea you beheld lay tranquil.

Otomeko,

"What thoughts do you hold?"

"I desire to ask it, yet am no friend."

"My wrinkled hand awhile—"

Still awhile—the space of a moment—
Let there be a fragrant morning aloft.
The old one’s heart was enduring.
That heart—like lotus root threads ultimately turning to smoke and vanishing—
No way to explain or speak.

Otomeko, facing the sea—
Not even singing a faint song—now your
Restraint is precisely what’s admirable—

Since it was a summer day
Since it was a summer day—with single-minded focus—
Over the sea, the cicadas sang.
Upon dark-hued waves, pine branches drooped.
And there,

Chapter One: The Purity and Solemnity of the Worldly Realm

I read the Flower Garland Sutra

Let no rare visitor draw near

Let no virtuous soul come to visit

Cast the foolish child of man beyond this world

Release it for a time

The sutra of Buddha’s enlightenment lies yonder, abrupt—

The temple's garden was dazzling with its golden roof and pillars.

Before long, it grew drowsy—

In the realm of autumn winds
The dew upon the grass remained undried.
Drooping millet ears—two in number—
The shadow drooped heavily—
It darted out just for a moment—
Flapping both wings and hunching its shoulders,
Rounded its body to crouch—a quail
Gazing at something far away,
Focused its gaze into the distance.

The sky distant.

No sound stirs.

Morning sunlight grew ever higher.

Junior Fifth Rank, Lower Grade: A certain someone from Tosa

A single color-tinged leisure seal

The painting—smoked onto silk—was pristine.

Since I was a traveler,

A thousand-mile road—I knew not where it led.

The unexpected Shuji advanced.

He took his seat.

All things considered,

The world [is] within autumn winds

In the realm of autumn winds

Painted Ceramics

Lifeless—
Ah, the pathos of things!
Of old—

Painted ceramics [are]—

Painted ceramics [are]—

Ah, how splendid—
A lone cloud hangs in the mid-sky—
Wild geese pass through the clouds—
The one who speaks thus—his aged form,
To what shall I liken this lament?
The mountains and rivers at the dish's base,
The castle gate with fluttering flags—

The traveler astride a donkey

And that attendant.

The burden on shoulders.

Gazing while lost in thought.

Gazing while lost in thought.

A boat floated on the Yangtze River.

A boat floated on the Yangtze River.

Do you know the path I tread?

Reed-field sparrows.

Seagulls flew across estuary skies.

The sound of oars neither hurried nor lingered.

To the miso storehouse they went begging for miso.

Water rail.

Water rails cried through rainy nights.

Again, a moonlit night.

In the allure of that crossing voice,

I inclined

My ears—

Resounding—

Sea roar.

My garden is a sweet potato field.

Summer night dew lies thick and damp.

A star flies, then another star flies.

The master of the hermitage came to the window,
When lying on the rattan chaise lounge,
With autumn's voice, insects sang.
The damned frog’s fractured—
He went forth to gaze upon the moon.
Around the ceramics, this too was absent.
Heave-ho, come on, heave-ho now
That’s the way, ah—that’s how it goes, ah!
The tall lanterns erected on the shore
In the shadow of two or so flickers of flame

This day too saw dance circles forming,

Hory-ho, hoi-yare-ho

All those with voices, every one of them,

It was a night when they sang sorrowful songs.

The distant sea roar’s

Even the faintest stood distinct,

A night that pierced through flesh and bone.

The joyous summer existed only in dreams.

Is it truly autumn already?

A dream lasting but a meal's span.

This I take as my world—empty.

Cicadas grew distant; no guests remained.

The wind blew aimlessly; the flowers flew.

Facing the garden, there was nothing.

In a dozing chair, if one dozed—

Could fleeting dreams be bound to endure?

Awoke from dreams beyond the seven-ri boundary—

Summer up to that morning had left nothing behind.

Autumn wind—

Ah, autumn wind—
the neighbor’s house with serene brows,
the flighty girl—let that be as it may—
the world had wholly decayed.

Farewell—I shall linger yet awhile.

In the dozing chair, I closed my eyes and feigned sleep.

Long ago, Lu Sheng’s lofty blaze—
even those drowsy intervals spent stoking the flames
were not of antiquity. “Ah, how poignant!”

——I feigned sleep.

Mourning-clad Butterfly

A single mourning-clad butterfly

Dashed through the pine forest.

Fluttering, it emerged over the sea.

Against the slanting wind,

Stumbling, staggering,

As if we were drunk on wine,

Intoxicated by the crimson cloud,

In all likelihood, it must have come this way.

Resolutely, it ventured forth into the open sea.

It ventured forth—far, far away.

Once more soaring high—the mourning-clad sleeves

They vanished from sight.

Because it’s a dream that will vanish in time.

For the end of summer is autumn.

The crimson cloud had faded
over the desolate sea.
Thus she would not return—
the cape’s nose left behind—
what could her aim be?

Resolutely, she ventured forth into the open sea.

She ventured forth.

Far, far away.

Once more she soared high—
In all likelihood, she must have come this way.
(We too would learn from that)
Even beyond this landscape—

She went to cast off mourning garments.

Indigo-hazed.
Indigo-hazed peaks—
Crossing over in single bounds—
Heralds of the demon king—
Silver dust in the morning light
Farewell, Siberian blue robins and magpies alike.
Regretful farewells scattered in disarray.
How the heart trembles—the deer’s
Raising its nape—to what does it listen?
The great beech tree trembles in autumn hues.
Autumn now.

Autumn now.

The thrush flocks too.

A passing—

People's children

Descend the mountain

They made the hut’s door sturdy,
They made it sturdy.
They made the wooden horse creak,
and brought along the foal.
After that, only blizzards and winter winds remained.

Battleground of winds.

Moreover, the sky's blueness and depth.

The tenuous glow of daylight stars

When a year passed,

When a year passed, the year dawned.

Another new year came.

If you lived in the village, you drank the village’s sake.

We shared with the hearthside guest.

From the very beginning, the mountain stood pure white.

A seagull grazed the window.

Accustomed to Echigo road’s sky,

Winter kept company with a cauldron

Sweet was the potato gruel, bitter the world.

We wiped the fog from our glasses.

The spring of life not worth regretting—

In the cup of scarcity

And if you sang

We left it to that rustic song.

Prose Poems Four Pieces

Silence

“Be silent!”

And Francis Jammes, late one night, placed a finger on his lips and commanded himself.
Ah, these days, yet again people deny my poetry.
They tear it apart.
With those arbitrary combinations, they deny me.
Ah, with that criticism, whose ears do they ultimately seek to cover?

But be silent!

And Francis Jammes commanded himself.

Yet for me, in my ears, even tonight, there echoes the sound of the Muse’s lyre.

......

So I too, learning from Francis Jammes, late one night secretly commanded myself thus:

Be silent!

These days, yet again people deny my poetry.
They tear it apart.
With those arbitrary combinations they deny me.
Ah, with that criticism... Having come that far there I faced a wall that blocked me.

But be silent!

And still, learning from Francis Jammes even so, I commanded myself.

But be silent!
For me—in my ears—even tonight, that sound of the Muse's lyre remains unheard...

…………………

Be silent!
Be silent!
Endure for a long time...

Departure

As I flipped Manto’s sleeve and hurried through the crimson station square at sunset, the emotion that surged like the sea was sweet, yet bitter like its tides.
People all chased their own shadows across this parched gravel at dusk when a weary rooster crowed distantly in the beyond; what I saw was an impression—a fading impression’s echo, like a call across valleys.

Departure—for a long time I had been preparing for this departure.
Today I was leaving this town I had long inhabited.
Now, as the traveler hastening to meet that urgent hour wove between dilapidated taxis and heard the distant shriek of a steam whistle—

Transcending vainly spent years and all worthless memories—ah, once again that cherished solitary figure passed before me like a phantom.
But where had you gone?
Where should I seek your dwelling?
When forgetfulness, nothingness, and thus these endlessly flat days came assaulting vainly from all directions like the sea.

Departure, departure—my train had already entered that platform over there.
Over there the bell clamored piercingly; over there the heavy pressure of the engine began to groan.

Departure.

Amidst this crowd，I alone，without hope，bowed my head over the bag on my knees and would depart under the shadow of a lonely signal over there．While boarding the same train as these crowds，yet I—as a solitary traveler—headed toward a different direction from theirs．

Departure... Departure...

Now there is no way to grasp your beloved personality—when that solitary star shines high above all creation—far, far away, as your disciple who shall not return.

Snare

When I saw the blue sea and flock of seagulls from behind that sand dune, when I first ventured there, far removed from people.

At that time, my heart was suffering from its first affliction.
The sea was blue, the sun stood high.
Having left my hometown far behind, what was the first thing I saw there?
Ah, that scenery has remained within my view even today.

What could progress be?
Life is like a waterwheel.
The eternal cycle revolves in one place.

Ah, the murmurs heard behind that sand dune—the laughter, the silence—and the parasol that cast its shadow over tender singing voices as it crossed the distant dunes.

Thus life passes into dusk.
Through my vision weakened anew today, within clouded glasses' distant frame floated that scenery: the sand dune from a summer noon when I read Turgenev and Doppo; the blue sea and flock of gulls; billowy fragments of clouds—and singing voices fading toward memory's distant secret bearing.

What did it all mean that day?
The meaning remained difficult to unravel, surfacing again in my heart even now.
Truly, life knows no progress.
It resembles a waterwheel -
that listless cycle revolving in place, endlessly revolving.

Today I passed by the waterwheel hut, pausing abruptly at the roadside to listen intently.
And so I returned still caught in this snare, vexingly dreaming of some unknown truth.

Wolf

“I was terrified!”

The girl came leaping into my lap and, while burying her face covered with both hands in my knees,

“It was terrifying!”

she repeated.
With her cold body trembling and breathing through thin shoulders like an orphan’s,
I felt like a father and placed both hands on her back.

“It was terrifying—truly terrifying! I suddenly encountered a wolf in the mountains.”

“Were there wolves in the mountains?”

“Golden eyes, deep blue fur, legs floating midair—from its fiery mouth blazed a crimson tongue, and the tail... the tail was like the wind! It was terrifying—that wolf suddenly leapt out from the thicket.”

“Ah! Ah!”

And I became an obedient listener and nodded.

“I went to the mountains alone—since I don’t have any friends—and kept going deeper into the heart of the mountains by myself.”
“Went for a walk, singing a song.”
“Alone... singing a song... into those mountain depths...”

“Yes, it’s always like that—and then, and then—those golden eyes, that deep blue fur...”
“The wolf...”

“Suddenly from the thicket—when I noticed—it had already come right before my eyes, at the tip of my nose! In the flames—burning—you see? Its blue fur ablaze, emerging from that Lelang mural—you know? Like something from that painting—legs floating midair already—huge wings sprouting from its shoulders…and that crimson tongue lashing up…”

As I continued alone like that, I peered into the girl’s face. She had already raised her head from my lap and—before I knew it—was leaning against my shoulder.

“It was terrifying!”
“It was truly terrifying—I fled without looking back, ran like mad, ran like mad—my knees got tangled, my breath gave out—but I truly came running without looking back—oh it was terrifying, terrifying...”

“It was terrifying, that wolf…”

“Like, Uncle—that wolf—you’ve encountered it too, haven’t you? In the mountains…”

“No—this uncle hasn’t met any wolves in the mountains.”

I somehow hung my head and answered like that.
The girl leaned her entire body against my shoulder then, just as my daughter always does.
—It seemed this might be a dream after all, I began to realize faintly in some corner of my mind.
However, I answered thus.

"This uncle—this uncle here—isn't in the mountains, no—but this uncle has seen that wolf—in Tokyo's city center—on Ginza Street's tram tracks."

The dream ended there.
The girl’s words still lingered in my ears.

…………

Waterlight dimly glimmering

Riding the camel's hump

Shaken by the unknowable camel’s back

I am a traveler who came from the opposite side of the Earth.

A convalescent crescent moon hung over the sand dunes.

I am one of those comrades who came staggering through those tent flaps.

With utter aimlessness

I became an ill-bred orphan wandering about these parts.

I am a fatherless child.

Starting with crafting lockpicks

I've done it all—snatching, swindling, embezzling, barrel scams.

As for my origins—
A curtainless single road—it was like a shadow play.
Naturally, being what I am, I’ve reached this age without destination or lodging—
I am a marked man of unknown nationality.
But if my thoughts—
At times they are a morning rooster; at times a noon sun-watcher.

The sound of a flute! A fountain!

My thoughts are as gorgeous, flashy, cheerful, and reckless as a lively festival.
Let me state this clearly—philosophy is utterly unlettered.
But there are tricks—and schemes—methods and devices—

Masks and drugs and files and daggers—the full set of tools was all there.

A crowbar stayed absent from the set.

After all, it was a house of cards—quick to rise, quick to fall.

Rope ladder on a moonlit night

Morning meant handcuffs, so to speak.

Nowhere made an easy place to dwell.

East west south north—the world stood as one.

Ugh—sick of it all.

Look at this wretched state—what did you hope to accomplish with your blowing?

Through the dry winter wind's bitter sky, trumpeting naive notes—where was this damned road taking me?

Astride the camel's hump swaddled in threadbare wool

Through distant provinces reached by endless wandering

What had these eyes truly witnessed?

Ah—back when I was a strapping workhand

Always washing up in some back alley then sprinting to board the stagecoach.

In the factory district where width held sway, even hammers felt light.

Neat work clothes—the scar between my brows and my tattoos all carried quite the dashing air.

The wallet was Manon from the dice-rolling tavern…

I frequented them with a stylish ditty,

Because I'm the type to fall head over heels in love, utterly and completely.

I long for kisses like crystal smoke turned to ash by a wizard—kisses like roses too.

Even so, the world was cold.

After all, every crossroads here was blown through by winds of recession.

It was a sullen neighborhood littered with coal cinders, acrid and gloomy.

How sharp they were—not missing a trick! Those bastards were as tenacious as gnarled bamboo, twisted at the core.

In such a heavenly height of the mundane world,

Stars flew—in that brief span.

No wonder I had been young.

Too late for regrets now.

A foolish donkey dreamed.

Ugh, I hate this—I’m sick of it!

—Ever since then, the trade had been in decline.

Chimney crawling, roofbeam crossing—burglary too, basket-breaking too, cattle rustling too—their skills had gone rusty.

The climate had soured.

At this point, it was an absurd tale.

Upon reflection, it was probably due to being uneducated.

By then I had no more skill than a minister in this land.

This—all of this—was how it ended up.

“Now then, gentlemen—it’s too soon. Do not pity this person.
Once again before your very eyes, the arrest rope was struck—but”

Even when the curtain had fallen, there remained an aftermath—they likely wouldn't fuss over this recurring blunder.

Comedy in seven acts—seven tumbles—even turkeys possessed agency—so proclaimed the fashion of this day.

Even for me, it wasn't over yet—there were still schemes, there were still memories.

Long, long ago—in that ancient past—I still retained fragments of pride I'd cast aside.

Tonight—the hour of falling stars.

“To you gentlemen alone I’ll say this.”

Wrapped in a disreputable blanket

This person once again—

The scowling-faced regulations that the world’s bastards rely on—through iron bars.

From the prison window, swaying unsteadily—

So long saba yo farewell yo
I have enough wisdom to escape by riding the camel’s hump.

And so a new morning comes—the curtain rises on the seventh act.

Farewell—let’s meet again somewhere…

Crow

At the dock of a distant land, I had lived for five whole years.

I had always lived all alone, leaning idly against a desolate window.

Ah—throughout that long stretch of time—what had I been looking at?

Crow, crow, crow—those sullen, oppressive companions.

Again today, all I could recall were those bastards.

Those voracious wretches had been scattered across desolate skies from dawn till dusk.

They clawed through the heavens all the way to where fishing boats floated on the sea.

In morning's first glow and evening's last embers

I'd just painstakingly laid fresh paint

Only for them to tear the surrounding scenery to shreds.

They rampaged like looters through burning streets.

What crude, wretched creatures they were.

From daybreak in the vast morning expanse

They busily marched out to distant realms.

And there on those sandy beaches—some chaotic jumble of rotten fish heads and such—
They flapped about and scavenged around.
They yawned and squabbled and such.
They tilted their heads and such.
And then, like city boys pedaling bicycles at dusk,
They flapped their wings hurriedly,
One after another after another, they crossed the sea and returned.
But what of it?
For five million years hence, they surely won’t perish, I suppose.

From such agonizing thoughts—
I always ended up alone, withdrawn into myself.

Moreover, that day at Tokyo’s Ginza crossing—
Naturally, I found myself remembering those bastards again.
What a desolate recollection that was.
Laugh at them!
There, the stylish handbags were somehow imitating them,
probably because they were flapping hurriedly over the dimly lit sea at dusk.

Susuki Field

A path through the withered, desolate susuki field.

In the distance there was an embankment—a disagreeable fellow like a thief.

And yet my nostalgic river flows there.

(That had already become such an inescapable crossroads fortune...)

And it always flowed beneath the embankment with a muffled, stealthy sound.

A dull boat floated there, and a dull fisherman spent all day long
scooping mud from the riverbed,
searching for the phantom of a catch that never was.

Seagulls were scattered about here too.
And on that painted backdrop beyond, a faint haze hung...
Crumbling chimneys—three and a half of them—stood lined up.
What a hollow and chaotic spectacle this landscape presented.
Nowhere did the sound of music reach.

Not a single river steamer was in sight.

What in the world was my fate thinking, having slipped into this backwater?

Ah, my fate did not awaken cheerfully.

Fantasy was like a staircase vanishing one step after another from the tail end,

and only camel-shaped clouds wandered thereabouts.

They too faded away from the rear.

Faded away.

Truly, today was a gloomy, unpleasant dusk.

Thus, without a doubt, this thing intended to take my fate somewhere.

Like a thief with stealthy steps,

thus this river stretched far, far away

As long as it wound through the utterly withered, parched Susuki Field,

as long as I remained captive to this scenery,

I was already descending

a dark, bottomless staircase without handrails—

I could only keep descending helplessly.

Dual Vista

Ah, this summer’s midday with its overwhelmingly bright blazing sky in the distant direction

The indeterminate sound and quietness coming from somewhere far away—
The one listening to a lonely voice flowing like smoke was my shadow.

Gazing at the ochre hills burning-like around there were I and my shadow.
Ah, this doubly desolate vista.
But somehow, strangely uplifting the heart—this was merely a city road.
On my shoulder that had been carrying it since morning, the sun lay heavy yet light.
Nowhere stood buildings I recognized; nowhere existed a dwelling for this day of mine.
This tangled mess of past and future was indeed another Tokyo—
a lumpy cluster of ochre hills.

It floated on the sea, it floated in the sky—a cricket supported it.

A midday stillness—quiet, so quiet—interwoven with distant echoes of things.

Flag.

Thus upon that dreamlike pristine white structure—upon countless windows floating in distant skies,

Look at the flag fluttering atop that spire's pinnacle.

The tip of the flagpole raised high and higher, slender and straight,

Ah, there too one saw a sea.

One saw a flag fluttering like the sea.

Ah, where the air currents flowed, countless waves surged upward.

Slowly, endlessly, one after another, they pressed onward from the open sea—infinitely.

From the mountain ranges around there, from the depths of the sky, today too they pressed onward—

Countless living beings chased their dreams pushed high into the sky.

Ah, the pitifully innocent flock of geese—goats and kids, sheep and lambs, dairy cows leading calves—

What were they rushing toward? Their shoulders undulated like waves, jostling and crushing against each other.

In those celestial realms (—some crying out), their hopes died one after another—ah, within that gloomy partition, a slaughterhouse where countless pigs went to die.

Doesn't it look that way to you?

In today's beautifully clear sky over there—the coldly frozen, motionless scale clouds and—

At the very pinnacle of the pure white architectural spire soaring dreamlike

High, high—raised so high it appears that small—the gently flowing flag and—

Ah, always such a flag of history flutters in the sky above human-inhabited cities.

Late Summer

At the dahlia hedge, I saw dahlias.

Crimson-burning dahlia flowers

At the sunflower hedge, I saw sunflowers.

It was a heavy, dazzling, smelly Republic of China medal.

On the hot, scorching sand—there I remained forever

I gazed toward distant Sanrihama Beach.

One after another after another—

The open sea swells undulated and came crashing high upon Sanrihama Beach.

On the flat, featureless sandy beach, spindly pine trees hazed into view.

Over the spindly pine treetops—

In the far distant direction, hazy unremarkable mountains appeared.

Such a lonely cape's scenery—

Again the offshore island—

Offshore beyond offshore—the silhouette-like shadow of an island hazily fading from view

I again gathered beautiful stones and shells like girls do and gazed at them.

(If you find this absurd, pray laugh)

Upon my ugly hands I gazed at beautiful things.

Crows were scattered across the sky.

Before long the west began to blaze crimson.

I perched on the edge of a small boat pulled up onto the sand there.
I sat hunched over indefinitely—
The divine palace had burned down—until firefighters and pumps alike scattered off to who knows where—
(Rome burned, Chang'an burned, Berlin too—and Tokyo.)
I gazed into the depths of the sky,
fluttering in the open sea's swells
until meager lights glimmered on the boat's stern—
A lone bird flies
seeking companions.

Rugged shore

A bird flies alone

Long-necked bird

Heavy-rumped bird

A bird flies alone

Day darkens; it flies forth.

Rugged shore

The undulation of seaweed swayed like smoke upon the rugged shore

A group of ama divers emerged from the water

A net-drying ground where nets tangle

I wandered about there—even the trivial insects scurrying

the hull of the old decayed ship lying capsized also

I looked at each one as I moved around.

Gradually, the surroundings grew dim.

From wearied and starved emotions, I looked around at the things there.

Thus summer passed away.

Yet it wasn't that I watched such a season's retreating form.

Ah, that wasn't how it had been.

I stood upon the path at the jutting cliff's edge—

There above the roaring crash of rebounding waves—already, already—all I had lost—

For in the direction of the distant beyond I knew—
The distant reaches—sea and sky.
The distant reaches—sea and sky.
In those trivial puddles there, a young boy was fishing for crucian carp or the like.
What a lonely, boring lot they are.
They're always hiding in the shade of trees here dawdling away, I tell you.
The crumbling embankment hazily blurred the surroundings.
All around there, the reed tips peeked out lushly.
It’s a reclaimed land over a mile from the decayed outskirts of the city.
Sure enough, those fellows were being carried away, drifting aimlessly in this cheerful weather.

They came thoughtlessly and squatted by the water’s edge.

Beneath grime-covered hats,

At times emotions—as unreliable as buoys that abruptly sank—were in turmoil.

The time was 1949—to the very noon of departing spring.

The hollow wind frolicked playfully, blowing in a bow-like curve to bend and flip over the faint fishing line.

Because it was noon, a steam whistle sounded faintly somewhere.

The distant reaches—sea and sky.

Dear slope

Dear slope.

I liked sitting alone on this withered grass slope.

Listening to trains rumble in the distance

I might as well gaze at these lonely, stunted winter clouds.

Ah all the cares I’ve carried from afar—

If my exhausted, worthless hopes—then cast them out onto that withered grass there.

That this exhausted, impoverished man tends to his exhausted, impoverished heart—

What an aimless, serene happiness this is.

But my sick heart still contemplates an unknown world.

Infinitely far away—dreamlike in its distance—straining to spread toward some unknown place.

I sense its will.

I sense its will.

Ah, release that will from its wretched shafts—it's a foolish donkey.

Since it's an ailing foolish donkey, go tether it to one of those pine trees yonder.

Let him quietly gaze upon his dreams...

Then leave him to graze on that yellowed withered grass there.

The base of the distant slope lay a decayed city's waterlogged hollow, all about dim geometric canals.

Even at midday they slept soundly.

Detouring around the far side of that thing
The sound of trains ceaselessly carried the bustling city's population,
Even in broad daylight—no matter what—there was always some fellow sleeping soundly.
As for me, that might be the case. That must be it.
If that's the case, then I myself had realized it long ago.

This battered ship would never reach port.
The port lay distant and lost from view, the waves were high, the sea was vast.
The engine was broken and the fuel had run out completely.

They heedlessly threw off the cargo.
It had somehow made its way this far.
Over the city's burnt-field wasteland，stunted clouds drifted.
The foolish donkey was over there.

Even so, given that creature’s nature, only its ears kept twitching.

Leave it be. It can’t be helped.

“But the sentiment—”

“But the sentiment feels like spring.”

An old man muttered like this

On the stone steps of the burnt field wasteland
A fate clutching lonely knees muttered like that—
Without a wife, without a home, without neighbors
Without honor, without hope, without occupation, without a hometown to return to
A desolate tale wrapped in meager rags had reached its conclusion
Like an echo calling back from across the ravine—the old man muttered like that
A dutiful wife, a kind family, habits of daily life and neighbors—
All that modest happiness had once existed there

On the stone steps of the burnt field wasteland

Toward the straight-lined canals fading into the twilight rain.

Over the shoulders of war-damaged buildings—twisted into deformed shapes and cowering in the gunmetal-hued distance—

The voices of sickly poor children beginning to sing their school song—

The city lights began to twinkle sparsely, bleakly, yet merrily.

Ah, that rose-colored gaze—those eyes beginning to glow faintly—

But what connection could there possibly be for me now?

And into the mountain range sinking heavy and dark in the sky far beyond that.

Today my day was severed mid-course, finally vanishing into nothingness at twilight hour—
Forever and ever—
This calm, this weary, this lonely sentiment clinging to vainly swaying willow shadows... This sentiment was just like spring...
An old man bowed his head and muttered thus:
"But the sentiment—the sentiment was just like spring..."
A grassy plain where plants grew thick and unchecked—

——In that utterly withered, completely desiccated area all around there,
The heavily sedimented canal water was being eroded away.
From all around the crumbling brick walls, a flock of sparrows took flight—
Like capricious memories flapping their fragile wings one by one—
It was dusk when even the town’s small birds flew away
In the midst of a clammy winter rain falling like mist.
But the sentiment—the sentiment now to this man—
Evoked memories of a hazy, distant cherry blossom day.

In emotions like locusts starving and dying away upon distant desert sands,

From the dimly lit interior where meager light fell, without any listeners, the old man muttered alone.

"But the sentiment—the sentiment is just like spring."

This is Tokyo.

“I want to tell you—this is Tokyo, the moat’s edge of the burnt field wasteland. Such a fog-laden night it is, O woman. This is neither Beijing nor Paris. Where might you be going? You’ve lost your way on this path. I want to tell you—you who bury your chin so pensively in your coat collar, drenched in this pale, cold night fog—where do you intend to return to?”

“Well now, why don’t you lift your head once and look around?”

“Look at how those plane tree rows fare.”

“Why don’t you look upon these skeletal remains of dead trees?”

“With the intuition of a pet dog reuniting with its long-lost master,”

“And with that livestock-like frustration,”

“I want to show you that distant home you’ve lost sight of.”

“You’re too single-minded by half.”

“You let the road hurry you along.”

As your footsteps faded into the fog,

“Here I lurk—a third-rate private eye under a streetlamp—but”

“Consider this.”

“You couldn’t possibly know this night path where highwaymen lie in ambush.”

“Hurry and awaken from your dream, O woman.”

In the concealment of that coat, your hand was clenched hard, hard—

It was coldly clenched.

“In truth, that is probably your dream.”

Facing your strangely lonesome figure growing distant,
I wanted to sound a warning whistle for you—
Ah look, you turn another of those street corners now; where might you be bound?
Such a fog-drenched midnight hour this is—O woman—here lies Tokyo.

Here was the moat's edge of the burnt field wasteland.

"You have lost your way on the path."

"O woman——"

Emitting smoke from their crests——

Emitting smoke from their crests——

A large wave came charging——emitting smoke from its crest——

Ah——these beasts pressed their brows like nightmares from offshore——

Rising up rising up rising up

The skulls of colossal-willed beasts infinitely surging forth from the oppressive weight of the pitch-black heavy sky

And those shattering scattering phantoms

Fleeting hills and their valleys.

Far, far into the endless darkness in all directions—voices tumbled and jostled.

A large wave came charging—billowing smoke from its crest, billowing smoke—

Rising up, rising up—they rose.

The pure white of their crests—

The phantoms I had been gazing at throughout the long time

Ah, from this single vista—goodbye—now was already the time for me to depart.

Over my spirit had passed that season of painful nostalgia—Yes, I would now take my leave from this rocky shore.

Never again would there come a time to return here.

Freezing inside the spray-soaked coat,

Urged on by what lay beyond, I would depart.

My heart's origin—it is not free.

——Even the songbird does not sing in winter.

Thus, upon the roar of the sea receding into the distance like distant thunder,

I shall not call out people's names again.

O traveler, take off your shoes
O traveler, take off your shoes
O traveler, take off your shoes
Apply the grease brush
Clear away mud, drive nails
Drive rivets
Rivet leather
O traveler, take off shoes
O traveler, take off your shoes
Willows droop over home's watery paths
Raise dust high, Jeep races on
No boats ply the canal cuts
Streets all leveled wastelands

The boiler rusted red.
The hose lay parched among the grass.

Do not plant your bamboo cane here
Alleyways' winds of late spring
Why must one listen?
Sky vast
Eyes were hollow
Swallows whirled about elbows
Roof tiles upon the earth grew dim
The road simply followed the water
Straight ahead—the end tinged blue

This was the path I once took to middle school.

Wherever one went, wheat ears ripened.

Radish flowers spilled and scattered.

Evening primroses—some bloomed by day.

Ah, these vestiges of song and dance in the narrow quarter.

The fragrance of frivolous words, rouge, agarwood, and musk—

Graceful indeed were dreams too… the ring of wisdom’s—

When one looked—the snake abruptly unraveled and darted away, vanishing—

The sun was an eclipse.

Voices called the sun an eclipse.

In the shadow, a ragged child looked up at the sky.

Yet again clamorous against the roadside stones—

O traveler, take off your shoes

O traveler, take off your shoes
Apply the grease brush.
Darn thread, sew with needle.
Drive rivets.
Rivet leather.
O traveler, take off your shoes
O traveler, take off your shoes

Ah, here too a black market.

A masterless dog with nowhere to go?

Through this withered age without recourse, I must walk on.

Existence and non-existence—memories too—

Jeeps merely drifted north and south.

Hometown's late spring streets

………………………

O traveler, take off your shoes

O traveler, take off your shoes

The Voice of Frost

Amidst the cold depths of a winter night

All people had extinguished their lights and slept.
Undulating hills and valleys.
The direction beyond where the ring road passed under the overpass.
Partially destroyed street lamps and oddly distorted hospital windows.
At times an aeronautical beacon twinkled in the night fog.
――In that direction too, still toward the pitch-dark port,
Even so, machinery creaked on.

Ah, throughout this city, cabbage fields lay frozen solid.
At the mansion ruins where only brick walls remained, the storehouse’s roof tilted.
A broken bridge spanned the nearby canal.

“Hey Officer, if I keep plodding straight down this road, where will I end up?”

“Well then... what glows dimly over there—that’s your Mars.”

“Don’t be absurd! How could I possibly go somewhere so far away?”

“I have been a resident of this Earth and a citizen of these scorched ruins since the day I was born.”

“And I am your public servant watching over you thieves.”

“Thank you, Officer. We cannot go to that star over there. Dear neighbor, the moon has risen.”

“Let us shake hands. Farewell.”

Time now passes through the very midst of the twentieth century.

Above the summit of the mountain pass we'd climbed, a half-crescent moon hung in the sky.
An ill-timed rooster crowed—the distant horizon ahead.

All regrets tangled together and faded into the distance behind—on the road around there.

――But winter meant spring was nearly here

Even the frost's voice crunched crisp beneath each step...

Farewell Japan Tokyo

The cherry buds began to swell.

Let us depart, our companions.

The capital-famed plover

A tailwind blew. Northward we pressed.

Farewell Azumabashi

Kototoi Shirahige

Farewell Japan Tokyo
Farewell black market
Farewell Pigeon Street
Young ladies of Shinjuku and Ueno
Ten thousand shoe shiners
Farewell Japan Tokyo
Farewell cheap liquor stalls
Farewell Master Painter Hirasawa
Farewell farewell
Twenty no Tobira Nodo Jiman
Farewell JOAK
Yagibushi and Mori no Ishimatsu
Farewell Japan Tokyo
Farewell Enoken
Farewell Bantsuma
Farewell stay well.

Marunouchi Moat Pines
Farewell Symbol-san
Farewell that Madam
Sukiyabashi Bridge waterside part-time job
Peanuts and lottery tickets
Influenza and strikes
Farewell Japan Tokyo
Puff-puff steam smoke rings
Dear Sumida River
Farewell Japan Tokyo
A tiny elephant came.
A typhoon came and the waters rose.

Autumn came to Tokyo, Japan.
A tiny elephant arrived.

Two years and six months old.

A three-hundred-and-seventy-five-kilogram chunker, but still a baby.

Elephants are cute animals.

If it's a baby, all the more so.

Lying on the straw bedding in the freight car

While eating Satsuma potatoes and bananas

While taking a nap, it came.

A tiny elephant came.

The one without tusks was female.

That was Elephas maximus*

Of course that was because it was an elephant.

It would probably shake hands with its trunk too.

From Bangkok to Kobe

Through winding sea lanes in idle hours

While swinging its innocent trunk

What had it been dreaming of on its way here?

A tiny elephant came.

A tiny elephant came.

Since it was called a gift,

Though the wicker trunk be light,

Whether that be so or not, it pierced to the core.

Japan Tokyo autumn wind

A tiny elephant came.

* Even among Asian elephants, females of this species lack tusks.
That which was gifted to Ueno Zoo last year by a certain Thai merchant is precisely this.
Incidentally, when it departed Bangkok, there was coverage in the Nippi Shimbun; when it entered the capital gates, it paraded through Ginza's streets and basked in the cheers of the entire metropolis.
The current "Hanako-san" of the same zoo
That is precisely this.

The noble prince does not return

"The noble prince wanders yet does not return; spring grasses grow green and lush" — Chuci

On the sand where mayflies flickered
Straw sandals had been sewn there, they said
The sea grew bluer each day
Yet no trace remained of the son who left home

As countries perish while mountains and rivers endure
Though parents stayed waiting
Suminoe, Suminoe of
Taro Kansha alone lacked true intent

The seagull grieved
The kite cried
Young greens burgeoned with each spring
Young grasses sprouted in the fields

The noble prince
Never returned

The old man entered the mountains to cut wood.
The old woman stayed at home weaving on a loom.
Their days passed uneventfully from dawn to dusk.

Suminoe of ancient times
The winding bays
Reflect upon
People of later times
Lend your ears

Clang clang, clang clang
Clang clang
Snip snip, snip snip
Snip snip, snip, ching

Kasari Correspondence

KOREA's green stamp (white wings and a small Earth

Ah, since it's airmail...

Postmark: 83.3.2)

Chōsen Keishō-nandō Shinyō-gun

Kyō Shukukō of Kasari Village, Imura District

A package arrived from that sender.

The missive states:

I was born in Gifu City.

I grew up there until I was eighteen.

My mother's country is Japan.
My father's country is here.
So when the war ended, I returned here.

Life here is also terribly hard.

Morning and evening, I wrote poems with sorrow.

Please look at this notebook.

One of those poems——

A choking sand cloud

On the road scorched by day

Bowing his head—the aged traveler’s lone shadow

Carrying a bundle heavily on his back

With legs grown heavy from the distant journey

He passed by heavily

The second poem——

Beggar’s

Nails grown long, fingertips grimy

Fumbling through tattered sleeves

Timidly, those hands tremble

A girl of about seven
Black eyelashes
Eyes damp
Lowering her small head again and again
The footsteps passing through the village—how sorrowful

Autumn wind

So that's how it is... Yes, that must be it.

Your hometown too...

I'll start reading this notebook now.

Thank you Kyō Shukukō
This notebook smells of your hometown.
This notebook reeks of garlic chives, Kyō Shukukō!

Because it's autumn.

Because it's autumn, armor shutters descended on distant windows.

Because it was autumn, the avenue trees would soon stand bare.

Because it was autumn. Because it was autumn.

The sound of the fountain grew louder.

Because it's autumn，the grapes ripen and the pears have ripened，

Somehow I am plagued by this foolish forgetfulness...

Upon paving stones，upon street corners，upon crossroads squares

Mottled with something dazzling—platinum light.

Because it's autumn，clouds hurry across the capital’s sky.

Is it only clouds that fly away?
Is it only fallen leaves?
Butterfly wings staggering down amidst fallen leaves—Silence!
Something in this quiet world—
Is it a hare stirring the ears?—No—
Because it’s autumn—because it’s autumn.
Somehow this foolish forgetfulness of mine…
Donkey—
Prick up your ears.
Donkey—
Neigh!

Donkey.
Wag your tail.
Donkey.
Run.
Donkey.
Eat grass.
Donkey.

Look at your shadow!

Donkey.

Thou

O Donkey!

Coolly blue

Coolly blue among the reeds, the bird's egg hatched.

Already it pecked at August’s light with its small beak.

I stood upon this high embankment, intending to cross the waters to yonder shore.

Upon the entirely empty river surface, I cast my worthless countenance.

The water flowed boundlessly onward, gentle and slow, while the soot flew away without leaving a trace.

That single tugboat ploughed heavily past behind the factory.

The watercourse spread broadly, spreading and then vanishing away.

Is this to make us realize that sorrow runs so deep and voiceless, that memories leave no trace?

In August, the fragile shell was shattered, and the bird's chick had hatched.

They parted the offshore currents, ceaselessly pecking as they glittered upon the waves.

Waterlight dim and hazy.

The distant embankment.

The waterlight was faint.

A castle stood overlooking this.

As the year waned, the sun set swiftly.

A skiff once ferried people across.

The sound of oars departed softly, following the silhouette.
Water rippled; reeds swayed.
Waterfowl emerged.
The pine grew old and leaned.
The sky hung low, its shadow emerging black.
Thus being, the clouds sank low.
All things universally dissolved into ink.

All remained silent, unspoken.

I was but a traveler in twilight who chanced here passing through.

Ask not with what heart.

Two wildfowl wings beat upward through heaven’s vault…

Tsk tsk—forbear awhile from borrowed human speech!

In distant treetops—

In distant treetops something rested.

Sun hung south; trees stood barren; sky burned blue.

And winter had changed its aspect to such an extent.

The field's surface lay barren; no people were in sight.

At the plain's edge beneath low mountains rested a being.

As an attempt， one was to count with long fingers.

O child—the train window bearing ephemeral tedium in a passing moment.

Through sunlight filtering through soiled glass,

Farewell—let us bend our fingers to count them all.

The tally of things I lost one after another, growing distant along this human world's path.

The speechless black-robed multitude—

The number of that gathering—
Does it not resemble repose?
Snow may fall—though tomorrow upon this field snow may not fall—
This day the sky is blue
How splendid—the horizon's edge

What tree stood there—pale with towering branches?

Upon those boughs, all black forms had folded their wings,

Jaggedly uneven, their number now complete.

This sky—though tomorrow snow might fall darkly—

A cool jar.

Sky clear; earth parched.
All things rugged boulders.

Each one sighed.
Earthen walls crumbled and lay flattened.
Stones all faced heavenward.
How desolate!

Thirty days without rain.

Therefore the sheep too knelt

And ruminated on flickering dreams.

The windblown dust briefly subsided.

I saw field plants still swaying with broad, round leaves.

At such a time, the shadoof moved over there.

It moved again, creaking ceaselessly.

The innocent daily motions!

The poor Young Girl, half-naked for a time, huddled by the wellside.

――Truly she appeared as one praying to the aeons...

With quick steps, she carried away the splashing dripping jar.

I saw

That Young Girl thus into the distance,

Amidst willows swaying to one side―against her chest the cool jar splashed.

Seemingly heavy yet light, she carried away the infinite time of this human world.