Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Joy of Death by Charles Baudelaire

In the mud where snails crawl,

I shall dig a bottomless hole with my own hands.

Peacefully shall I bury these bones of mine grown decrepit with age,

Like a shark sinking to water's depths, I shall sleep in forgetfulness's abyss.

I loathe last testaments and despise tombs.

Rather than dying to beg vainly for human tears,

While living, I would sooner summon crows,

And have them peck at my spinal cord's soiled ends.

Ah, O maggots!
Eyeless and earless companions of darkness,

For you—children of decay, profligate philosophers—

The exultant rogue dead has come.

Devour my corpse without hesitation,

This flesh twice dead—perished in death and soul-lost—

O maggots, ask me:
"Does anguish still persist or not?"

Anguish Shiyaru Bōdoreru

The firmament hung heavy like a smothering lid,

I pressed upon my chest lamenting long-unspoken Anguish,

A daylight darker and more sorrowful than night,

When the sky enclosing all sides descended,

Was this world indeed an earthen prison?

I struck my head against worm-eaten floorboards,
its leaden wings brushed against walls,
as bat-like Hope flew away.
The endless threads of rain fell
no different from a prison's bars,
while a swarm of silent spiders
came spinning webs through my brain.

Such was the hour
when temple bells trembled in terror
at homeless wandering souls
who wailed obstinately
as they raised wounded cries to the vast sky -
a hearse without drums or music
processed through my heart's core,

Deceived “Hope” weeps; violent “Anguish”
erects a black flag upon my bowed head.

Darkness Shiyaru Bōdoreru

O Forest, thou dost make me fear like some ancient temple.
If thou dost howl like temple music, the heart of this accursed one,
In the chamber of eternal mourning where death rattles resound,
The voice singing De Profundis resounds as a mountain echo.

O Ocean, I detest thee.
With frenzied cry,
My soul hears it in your voice, O Ocean.
The bitter smile of one defeated—brimmed with tears and shame—

Does this not resemble your dreadful oceanic laughter?
Thus exultant was the night.
Emptiness and Darkness

Since I sought nakedness, the starlight transformed into remembered words.

The lightless night spoke to me—how exultant it was!

The visage of Darkness became silk canvas.
The perished ones all assumed remembered forms,
Countless they came leaping forth from my eyes.

Enemy Shiyaru Bōdoreru

My youthful world was one where scant rays of sunlight filtered through.

It passed not through the storm’s darkness.

With the ferocity of roaring thunder and the violence of pouring rain,

In my garden, even the crimson fruits that remained were exceedingly rare.

Now approaching thought's autumn,

I took up hoe and spade anew,

but when tilling flood-ravaged land—that very flood upon the soil—

dug only graves disguised as furrows.

Still I dreamt of novel blossoms,

though in this scoured riverbed of earth,

how could I find sustenance for thriving growth?

Alas! Alas!
"Time"
devouring life,

while that tenebrous "Enemy"
spread alone through my heart,

sucking spilled blood, swelling with pride, flourishing.

Autumn Song Shiyaru Bōdoreru

I

We were about to plunge into cold's dark abyss.

That fierce-lit summer proved but a dream's span—farewell!

Already I heard with dread upon courtyard stones

The mournful thud of firewood being cast down.

All winter was—rage and loathing, tremors and dread,

While forced labor's yoke came surging through my flesh.

It was as if enduring an arctic hell's day.

My heart becomes a frozen shard of crimson iron.

When I shuddered at the firewood's hollow crash,

The guillotine-builders' din had swelled beyond silence.

Under that single strike from a tireless warrior's hammer,

Is my chest the watchtower of a collapsing castle?

Swayed and swayed by such languid reverberations—where...
Like frantically nailing a coffin’s lid… That was,
The sound that buried yesterday and the departed summer—this mysterious voice proclaiming autumn’s arrival—
It resembled nothing so much as a bell tolling for the burial of the dead.

II

How I yearn for the green light of your long and lovely eyes.

How bitter to me now is even your once so sweet form.

Your affection, the warm fireside, the dressing room—

To the present me, nothing compares to the sun shining upon the sea.

Yet pity me, O gentle one.

Be like a mother to the ungrateful wretches, to the warped ones.

Lover or perhaps sister?
O glorious splendor of autumn,

Forget not the fleeting kindness, like the sun that sinks once more.

Inexorable fate is swift.
The covetous graves wait yonder.

Ah, pressing my forehead against your lap,
Lamenting the sweltering white summers of yore,
Savor the soft and yellow light of late autumn.

Rotten Flesh Shiyaru Bōdoreru

How could my soul forget—the cool summer’s

How could I forget what I had seen on that sunlit morning?

At the path's corner, gravel as its mattress,

Ugly corpse.

Steeped in poison, its blood burned
Like a wanton woman, legs thrown upwards,
Spitefully flaunting its ostentatious display,
Its sweating belly spread out.
Scorching sunlight fertilized nature
To nourish a hundredfold,
To return all to nature
This corpse would be burned.
The blue sky held a beautiful marrow
If one gazed upon it as though upon blooming flowers,

Upon wild grasses lay an intense stench,
The intense stench upon wild grasses arrested human breath.
From the rotted belly where blue flies buzzed their swarming wings,
A black mass of maggots welled up,
Like thick pus oozing viscously.

It flowed along living rags.

All these things became waves that ebbed and flowed,

Resounding, reverberating, undulating.

In the blowing wind, the corpse's body swelled.

One might doubt whether it lived and fattened itself.

The flowing water resembled wind.

Heaven and earth played strange music,

Within the sieve of rhythmically swaying undulations,

When they whirled madly like grains in a sieve,

Upon forgotten silk canvas

The hesitantly drawn contour—

The artist merely traced memory and took up the brush,

The form now a vanished dream?

Beyond the crag trembled a bitch.

With impatient eyes she gazed at the figure,

The flesh remaining on the corpse
She lay in wait to bite again.
Does this not resemble impurity, this corruption?
Yet at times you too
O star of my eye! Sunlight of my nature!
You all! My angels! My passions!
O beauty of form! Is this not also thus?
Having endured demise's mortifications
In lush wild grasses' shadow you passed away
Should moss cloak white bones
O beautiful form!
Through kiss's seal
Speak! To earthworms that shall gnaw you
The pure essence and form of my love—decomposed

I long preserved.

The Moon's Sorrow by Charles Baudelaire

The moon tonight lay languid in dreaming.
Over a dreadfully meager quilt, the hand it raised lay powerless,
While drowsing, its chest—
swelled and caressed like a beautiful woman's.
The soft avalanche of snow upon satin back,
The moon lay supine and stretched out, its sighs long and languid,
The phantom of a flower rising pure white into blue sky,
It gazed upon something flower-like,
In moments of languid weariness upon the mortal world’s face,
When dropping ephemeral teardrops upon the mortal world’s face,

The enemy of sleep, the meditative poet,
In his palm glittered fragments of cat's eye stone.
He plucked the pale moon's tears,
He stealthily hid them in his chest and evaded the Sun’s eye.

Wandering — Arthur Rimbaud

O blue summer night!
Intoxicated by the scent of wheat, I trod on wild grasses—
When I walked the narrow path
My heart dreamed while my feet moved swiftly
My bare forehead
Bathed in the blowing wind
I spoke not; I thought not—
Being naught but limitless love
Perceived welling from my soul’s depths
Like shelterless wanderers do
No—far would I walk
With heart joyous as lovers’ promenade

"I shall walk with Nature."

Piano by Paul Verlaine

The piano trembled in supple hands,
Shining through a faintly hazy evening tinged with pale rose.
The powerless sweetness of faintly fluttering wings—
A verse from a faded song
Drifted tremblingly through fear,
Wandering amidst scented powders steeped in a beauty's fading perfume.

Ah, the lullaby that gently rocks my being—
This tender melody's refrain—what does it bid me recall?
The refrain repeating with each verse, barely audible—
What do you demand of me?
When I strain to listen, before hearing takes hold—

The song's voice faded away toward the small garden,
Through the slit of a window left slightly ajar.

White Moon by Paul Verlaine

The white moon

Glowed through the forest.

The whispering voices of branches

In the thicket's shade

Ah—called out "Beloved one."

Bottomless mirror of

In the pond water,

The shadow of the weeping willow, intensely dark.

The wind wept through those branches.

Come, let us dream together as two.

Gentle yet endless in its mystery,

The stillness,

This stillness steeped in moonlight's pallor,

Hung suspended from the night sky.

Ah, O exquisite night!

Journey by Paul Verlaine

In the cold and desolate ancient garden

Two lovers passed through.

Their eyes dimmed and lips slackened,

Their whispered conversation broke into fragments.

In the ancient garden where the lover had departed—how strange!

The shadow of those who spoke of the past.

“Do you remember the joyful days of old?”

*Why do you ask whether I remember?*

“When your heart calls my name, does it not always tremble?
Does your soul still dream of me?”
“No.”

“Ah! Those days when our lips met—
Those beautiful days of perilous bliss.”
“Yes... that’s how it was.”

“The skies then were blue.
Our hopes then were grand.”

“But those hopes were shattered—vanished into darkening skies.”

Amidst thick-grown crow wheat lingered an abandoned conversation—
There remained nothing to hear but the night.

Night Bird by Paul Verlaine

The nightingale, gazing from a high branch at its own figure reflected in the stream and thinking it had fallen into the water, though perched atop an oak tree, lived in constant fear of drowning.
(Cyrano de Bergerac)

In river waters where mist hung thick, the shadows of trees

vanished like smoke.

At that moment, from between branches that were not shadows—from somewhere unknown—

The night bird weeps.

Ah, O traveler!
How this pallid landscape,

How I gaze upon your pallid face.

How sorrowful, your drowned hope,

How your drowned hope would lament in the high treetops.

By the Warm Fire Paul Verlaine

By the warm fire, the narrow shadow of lamplight,
Propped on an elbow, supporting his head in dreamlike reverie,
The eyes that met with the beloved—those eyes and those eyes,
The hour of conversing over tea, the closed book,
The tender thought that perceived day's decline.
Dark shadows, the time of waiting for the still night—
The heart's weariness that could not be spoken,
Ah, my dreamlike reverie—longing awaited through many months.
Weeks without respite,
Still I pursued them relentlessly.

The Unreturning Past by Paul Verlaine

Ah, this endless reminiscence—what is to be done?

In autumn when bush warblers flew through a sky weary and worn,
In the yellowed grove where winds whispered through trembling leaves,
It was a time when listless sunlight seeped through the canopy.

With thoughts of the heart and wind-tossed hair swaying,

Only you and I walked on, dreaming and dreaming.

The glinting gaze was suddenly directed toward me,

The shining golden voice spoke: "How were all the days of beauty in your world?"

A voice deep and tender, resonating clear as trembling bells.

To this voice I answered with a timorous smile,

With all my sincere heart, I did not kiss your white hand.

Ah, how fragrant the first blooms!

From the mouth of the beloved escaped a gentle whisper.

"The first voice that nodded and said, 'Yes.'"
Ah, how resounded that echo!

Improvisation by Paul Verlaine

The sky beyond the roof

So calm, so blue.

The trees beyond the roof

Swayed their blue-green leaves.

Gazing upward at the temple bell high in the sky

Softly tolled.

Upon the tree I gazed up at, a bird
Sang sadly.
Ah, God!
The simple life—
How splendid it was.
The resonance of those peaceful things came from the town.
It came from the town.
You, in days past—what had you accomplished?

You who are now here do naught but lament.
Speak now, you—in those youthful days,
what did you accomplish?

What did you accomplish.

Swamp by Pierre Gautier

In the depths of the thick-grown forest

Black and voiceless slept the swamp.
Never did breeze caress water's face,
Nor faintest ripple rise from depth's embrace.

Beneath the thicket of withered branches,

In the sky, the hidden sun lay distant,

In the depths where Time's heavy peace dwelled,

In the dark shade of beech trees, the swamp slept.

Through autumn's tempest, amidst shadows,

The stripped-bare treetops,

Upon muddied and clouded mirror,

Without pause to wipe their cold crowns,

With each falling leaf,

Ripple-etches spread across slumbering waters,

Over surfaces welcoming decay,

Fallen leaves drifted slow.

Not one bird ever came to drink,

No eye ever plumbed those depths.

――In the depths of the thick-grown forest

Black and voiceless, the swamp sleeps.

Pond Edmond Picard

Was my chest a sodden land where water had congealed into death’s ancient pool?

The frozen wind unleashed endless screams there—

Through lightning-struck trees bearing scars of terrible assault—

Ah—how mournful stretched that shore’s prospect!

Love forgotten—friendship’s vanished bonds—

Cruel fate’s wretched treasures—slowly—

With blackened mud and blossoms drained of hue—

Rotted they away in this slumbering vase’s depths—

What gloom-filled nook!
Yet from that desolate chasm’s core—

Should my frail heart cast off its measuring chain—

When one suddenly struck the stagnant muddy water,
a vibration arose and a streak of light flashed across,
water lily stars illuminating unfathomable sorrow,
the bright colors of numerous memories floated up to the water's surface.

Memories of Music, Color, and Scent by Emiru Vuookeeru

Memories of music and color and scent dwell within me.

If I were to call back days gone by,

Pluck the flowers.
Within me dwell memories of scent.

If memories of music dwell within me,

The movement of a mysterious rhythm

Within my breast Nostalgia awakens times past.
Pluck the flowers.
Play music.

Who? What?
When I recall forgotten things,

Within me dwell memories of color.

I recall, in crimson dusk,

My lover laughed mockingly... I wept.

Within me do dwell memories of color.

Autumn’s Piteous Flute by Aa Efu Erooru

Autumn's piteous flute cried,

Unsettled dusk.

When the sky sipped tears,

The wet trees trembled.

Flowers slowly withered and shriveled,

Birds flew off toward distant fields.

There too existed the hues of April.
Joyous songs were to be heard.
You who dreaded the cold were sorrowful,
You, my Life, walked along the path.
You, pale-hued and journeying,
You sought songs with clouded voices.

Ah, that song we joyfully listened to together—

If you call this autumn, I shall not return.
One day I shall again laugh and gaze
Upon your eyes that had now become tears.

A Small French Town by Henri de Régnier

When I rise and leave the town at dawn,

The paving stones of the road echo loudly with footsteps.

The young light of the sun warms the aged tiles.

Lilas flowers bloom in the narrow gardens of houses.

The echoes of footsteps outpace their walkers.

Moss-covered earthen walls crowned with towering treetops extended along their length,

The worn paving stones led into a white sandy path that ran from the outskirts of town to the fields. From the steep mountain path that climbed upward, at the foot of the sunlit hill, appeared the narrow, poor, and quiet town where I was born—how familiar those beloved roofs looked as they came into view. My town sprawled there at length where a river flowed, its water dozing twice beneath two bridges before passing on. The grove that once thrived along the promenade towered over the town, having aged alongside the bell tower's stones. In that serenely clear air devoid of mist...

My town sent its deep resonance to me:
the laundry shop's pestle pounding cloth,
the blacksmith's hammer ringing iron,
infants' shrill-yet-tender clamoring cries.
In my town's unchanging floating world lingered no memories,
no splendor of prosperity or glory—
my town through all ages
would remain but this small city I now saw.

My town lies among cultivated fields, plateaus, wild plains,
For it stands as one of many towns amidst pastures,
To the name of some indistinguishable small French town,
Travelers shall pass by without even knowing my town's name.

Yet in walks that shifted from morn to eve,
A day of long thoughts had passed,

Beyond the wheat fields, the sun hid,
The narrow path through the woods began to darken,
In the night when even the hues of objects grew indistinguishable,
The footsteps resounded on the steep path.
The sound of water overflowing the weir carried faintly from afar.
When the blowing wind rustled through the canal's grove,
Weary, I drew near the town on my return.

I suddenly looked up at the windows of nearby houses.
Through glass without even drapery, in the lamp globe,
when I saw the golden kerosene lamplight burning,
probing the night path with my cane, my feet naturally hastened,

I realized:
My tomb-like homeland—
Beloved eyes from within the darkness,
ever so gently,
as if taking my hand and pulling.

Grapes Henri de Régnier

O lover who knows that dream in which I anguished to the brink of death.

I was starved and exhausted by hopes unfulfilled in their various forms,
In the grape arbor where clusters had ripened, I lingered long intent on plucking them,
Like a sower, I merely waved my arms in vain.

Yet you deigned to slumber, smiling in gentle dreams,
That heartlessly serene sleep was hateful.
The refreshing morning breeze conveyed the morning's vibrant tones.
Night broke into dawn with crimson clouds mantling the east.

Now I shall go.
The light of hope guides us toward the beautiful hill.

The seedlings I planted with my own hands and the long-awaited fruits,

I must gather these beautiful clusters of grapes.

Yet were there not even a few grass sprouts,

In that ill-fated dream they name waiting—ever unchanging—

To behold the hollow dawn would I descend the mountain at dusk.

I have walked—Henri de Régnier
Long have I walked.

As night descended,

The many dreams seen at dawn were already fading.

Was it not you?
At the end of that solitary path lay a beautiful vista.

To the distant mansion had I been led by your gracious guidance.

There, illuminated by the mysterious moonlight,

In the midst of flowers that bloomed and clustered within the slumbering garden of old.
Numerous towers towered as lofty buildings, their roofs ringing with bells.
A house that housed beautiful exotic birds came into view.
When the brocaded small bird dozed on its perch,
At the bottom of the pond, golden fish flickered.
The fountain's gush whispered incessantly.
As you trod upon the moss, your robe resounded,
the soft hands that knew the secret of the invisible key
Your hands took and supported mine, yet...

Dusk Henri de Régnier

Where dusk stretched far into its depths at the edge of the sea,

I once gazed upon the city.

Of vivid silver and faded crimson

Where dusk stretched far into its depths at the sea's surface,

The marble and black iron streaming their shadows

I once gazed upon the capital.

Doors and houses too have I seen.

(The blood-hued dusk was upon the sea at that hour)

The wind made even the fire of the open hearth visible.
The wind agitated the entrance's bonfire.

The wind slammed the door shut with a violent snap.

“Death” and “Hope” passed away.

Beneath the dark sky, upon the pale silver surface of the sea,

their shadows drifted away.

Within me, from that moment onward,

how sorrowful was the dusk rising over the sea!

Autumn Henri de Régnier

The wind passed from branch to branch,

In bright summer and again in dark days,

Black owls and white doves cried.

The wind shook the ancient treetops.

The sound of rain dripping onto leaves,

Gentle yet melancholy,

For this wandering self, footfall by footfall

"Was it not heard—the sound of Sorrow's suppressed weeping?"

From green to yellow, from yellow to crimson,

From golden hue to true gold's hue,

As the trees' treetops grew aged, I—

I contemplated my "Past" scattering away from autumn to autumn.

The forest from soaring peak to peak

Though the red oak and green pine stirred,
The blowing wind solemnly swallowed its voice,
Like unto "Bitterness" and "the Sea".

Noon Henri de Régnier

Noon... The pure white road ran to the sea.

The light of the bright day entered through the window,
On the floorboards of the room not yet hot,
Scattered by the footsteps of people coming and going,
It illuminated the dry, glittering sand.

The air was crisp with the scent of Sunday and summer.

O sun-drenched cloth and scent of pine resin!
For,

In the rough-cloth sunshade were traced pinecone shadows that had descended upon branches.

The shadows of pine nuts were traced.

In a stillness so profound that even stillness itself seemed exceedingly distant—

Thoughts departed, leaving the heart empty in this hour

The figure of a woman moving her body quietly, called PARESSE,

To better savor the rest she had thoroughly wearied of,

With her downcast gentle eyes closed,

On the long-stretched wicker chair,

In the pleasure of true nakedness, in the joy of escaping notice, she smiled furtively.

Confession Henri de Régnier

The true sage knows all things are vain through eternity's span -
Even love must vanish like shifting skies and wind's fury -
One who builds his house on sand.

Therefore being like flame that flares then dies away,
He contemplates roses blooming only to fade,
Adorned with studied calm and beauty's guise,
Facing this fleeting world's people and things.

With hands indifferent to dawn's first flames,
Should evening's fires not overflow their bounds,
Then dusk brings no wounding ash to the sage.

The dawning day is a day of waiting.

Amidst things that shift and things that vanish,

If I consider the flowers that bloom in passing seasons only as fated to wither and die,

If I could but perceive this solely as mortality,

Might I too have emulated the sage's solemnity?

Yet with this heartrending persistence of sorrow,

I am consumed by regret, hope, and sorrow

And drowned in tears of darkness from inconsolable anguish,

I feared only the vanishing of the suffering that wracked my body.

How now?
Even the fragrance of roses on the sand

The refreshing coolness of blowing wind—even this beautiful sky-view—
that in eternal time's span all things prove not vain—
For my wretched insatiable craving knows no respite.

Garden Henri de Régnier

Come to the garden.
Dusk filled the garden with leaves,
earth and flowers, moist shadows—a time when their fragrance lingered.
Under aligned boxwood boughs, the narrow path grew ever narrower as one advanced,
guiding your steps into deepening narrowness and tranquility.
Beyond lay fields and roads and perilous crossroads—
what was the water of that mirror-pond but...
Soon only roses bloomed crimson on withering stems,
mere bitter mementos of your fleeting world.
All "bygone days" were led by living night
to resurrect within these grounds.
The hostile crowd

Lush wild grasses and wet paths spread through dark forests,

Here alone, in the garden's corner, lay tranquil gentleness.

A row of fruit trees along the earthen wall stretched out long black arms.

May you walk in peace only here where you are protected.

Vase Henri de Régnier

Monument of silence, tomb of beauty!

"Sorrow turned to ash in its vase."
Having gathered summer fruits and autumn grapes,
For this beloved burden I swallowed my voice.

Vanished time and dead seasons,

Once having drunk deep and thrived—intensely, powerfully, abundantly—

Memories of fragrances caught in manifold moments,

Since they still remained at its depths, for that very reason

You carried the golden vase holding summer’s memento of ashes.

You wandered through an exceedingly dark youth.
Ah, you who are called 'Sorrow',

O woman's figure walking the path!
I welcomed you too for this very reason.

O monument of silence, O tomb of beauty!

The Night of Passing Years Henri de Régnier

A tall lamp
on my bowed desk
stood erect among open books,
burning soundlessly.
As if gazing intently at something,
the pathos-filled senile “Time”
wandered about the study.

Its footsteps could no longer be heard.

Trying to warm its lowly raised hands,

the senile "Time" was about to settle by the bright furnace,

Due to the gray garment called winter that it wore,
it appeared somehow modest and patient,
and yet also earnest.
Just as I traversed the depths of my thoughts,
to the light footsteps that seemed to tread upon those ashes,
the figure of senile "Time"
appeared somehow gentle and yet somehow stern.
The baskets of summer and autumn
were hung on the far wall, but
from time to time, the willow branches weaving their baskets would snap and split open,
the vase with stems and leaves all withered
as wind rustled the reeds.

Each time this happened, I started and
strained my ears.
When I gazed at senile Time's face,
that old woman remained motionless in her gray garment,
stretching straight and flashing like a whip.

Bending each strand of the willow's supple young branches,
summer days that laughed
while weaving flower baskets sang.
They did not sing those forgotten songs of old.
But that spinning wheel alone,
as if a bee were buzzing somewhere,
now high, now low, now far, now near,
hummed and droned
as though spinning threads of twilight.
The clock hanging high
from a boxwood box carved with scale patterns
added another hour to the fading time,
until midnight struck.
Time advanced steadily onward.
Then Time, clad in peach and gray garments,

"Time," who had been sitting silently by the furnace,
stood up and stirred the extinguished fire back to life.
The flame of hope flared up,
coloring the soot-blackened floor tiles red,
and warmed the frozen fingertips of "Time."
From the gateway where Time had already come creeping in,

Time’s new face turned toward my thoughts,
I felt as though it were smiling.

Evening Meal by Charles Guérin

Singing as she worked, my lover prepared the twilight meal - fruits from the garden fence, white bread, cow's milk - all arranged beneath the flickering light of bees' darting wings, then drew near to sit close by my side.

The rain had cleared.
The air hung moist, the grove's fragrance swelling thick; beyond the opened window, droplets pattering from leaves mingled with an insect's song rising from some hidden corner of the room.

Elbows propped on the dining table, modest dishes left untouched, as we both sank into thought - wordless, save when my lover would lay her bare arm trembling under the wind's cold exhalation against my lips.

A crystal vase free of cloudiness—curvaceously rounded in form—bore upon the circular plane of its rounded flank reflections of two faces; framed by the window's borders was painted a scene of forest thickets and our homeland's sky.

Yonder, the autumn sky grieved crimson.
O this tranquil nostalgic moment of cherished love!
Unbeknownst to them, twilight—with the sky's hues mirrored on the vase's surface and their eyes growing misty—steadily leached all color from their modest world of two.

I pressed my face against my lover's chest, and it throbbed.
When the blowing wind stirred the wet grove, the two lost in thought startled awake together, and in the fruit-laden garden attuned their ears to the falling sound.
And so, were we two travelers looking back on the path we had traversed?
Reflecting once more on this day as it faded into dusk, with the shared prayer of our burning hearts, we bound together these hands, these voices, these souls.

At the Road's End by Charles Guérin

At the road's end
The sun sank.
Take my hand,
Let there be a kiss.
Like a doubting heart
This spring ran turbid.
To me who thirsted,
Make me drink your tears.
The day had darkened.
The bell tolled.
Give me
Your chest quivering with that love of yours.

The road descends.

A pure white band stretching leagues long.
Blue hills' slope
came to an end.
Let us pause.

Ahead lies

Gaze upon the forest.

The roof was hazed over,

The village dreams.
Where I would sleep
lies there.
In the shadow of the door,
buried under falling leaves,
embraced by your black hair.

Existence or Nonexistence Charles Guérin

Even should no echo resound, all things bear shadows that follow.

When night descends, the spring becomes a mirror of stars,

The destitute too may meet with human kindness.

To the flute's clear and mournful note, the earthen wall stands relaying echoes,

The singing bird bids another bird sing,

Reed leaves quiver when reed leaves stir them.

Would human hearts answer this cry from my anguish's depths?

Ah, does such exist or not?

April by Gustave Kahn

Ah, lovely April when flowers bloom.

But if my lover were far from me,
Were she dwelling within northern mists,
What meaning would April's new song hold,
Its white lilacs and wild roses,
Sunlight threading gold through treetops?

Ah, April blooming fair!
How joyous to meet my love again.
Ah, April when flowers bloom!

The lover comes.
April's lilacs and gilding light
Shall comfort me at last.
I give thanks to April.

Ah, beautiful blossoming April!

Romantic Evening by Comtesse Mathieu de Noailles

O summer, how long you had lingered!
I who had vowed to resist your gifts found myself vanquished at last that night, drowned in pleasure to my very core.

When I drew near the dusky lilac blooms beneath the tender oak's shade - how could I refuse? - thus my soul seemed to whisper.

All things confounded and wearied me.
Drifting clouds shivered faintly; desire's tumult flowed into the hushed night like some languid skiff.

The train passed by.
O burning joy!
That sound rended the air.
My nerves were shattered, feeling destined to die, yet I agonized over what to do, tormented by the desire to live again.

Ah, this night—I desired the chest of a young man who leaned upon my shoulder.
That person should drink in the languid weariness of my heart—a weariness surpassing even romantic things beneath willow shadows.

"I told him: 'It was not you who lured me. Every guise of night makes my breast swell like a dove's—but since you're too young, this heart dissolving into golden tides of blood, this sorrow of flesh that pierces bone—only on nights when I would voice them.'"

Every tree stood keenly sensual, every night unfurled its intimacy—the ceaseless sound of stifled weeping rose through smoke-veiled skies.

Do not deign to merely gaze upon splendid nights and speak.
You alone I sought—wounded and anguished.
Upon lips that would scream madness, with a heart yearning to vanish utterly—O my beloved—
Pray weep.
“Only pray weep,” should you say.

September Orchard by Comtesse Mathieu de Noailles

Scorching heat clouded the horizon.
Summer's heat.
Soft woolen fabric.
The air hung heavy, sealed without a crevice.
Like the valiant clatter of looms, the swarm of bees noisily and joyfully cried out to the scent of fruit.
When I left the sultry garden path, here at the end of the winding way lay the verdant young grape vineyard.
The house’s entrance stood open, and hoes, spades, watering cans lay before the gate of the poor dwelling bathed in yellow sunlight, within the tinted dusk.

When I entered the cool retreat, how refreshing was the scent of fruit!
Involuntarily hesitating, I listened intently.
In the shade of the cool domed ceiling, not a breath of wind stirred; the surroundings desolate, my heart grew tranquil of its own accord—was it perhaps a low-roofed, cool nunnery?
The scent of summer swelling and streaming—it might have been likened to a dim basement.
The heat exhaled by garden and water lay confined here, taking restful breath.
Ah.
The temple's silence, O pure slumber!

The new pears and apples, having left the orchard groves, had ripened on the house's shelves within empty shadows.
Their tart yet sweet flavor dripped, while the fragrance lay sunken like pond water, utterly still.
A single slender-waisted wasp, having cried itself out, traced a black dot on the square surface of a narrow glass window where sounds were distant and still.

How overwhelming the fragrance of fruits!
This scent, crafted by the azure firmament and rose-hued earth through scorching summer's toil, contained within the beautiful fruits' flesh the very color of the dawning sky.
The scent of joy with pure heart and fresh spirit, its light, its flow; the rich sap born from the frolic of atmosphere and soil; melted sugar.
You who were born at the bottom of a hand bucket were a small god upon cold straw.
O friends—wooden barrel and iron hoe, green watering can!
Now, surround me in the ranks of the sweet round dance where your profound fragrance whirls!

Ah, every day at dusk I came here; near the lovely garden tools—hand baskets, watering cans—when I indulged in reverie, ah, memories of my youth.
The sobbing that sang of happiness gushed forth from the depths of the heart.
I now saw, now knew, now realized the beautifully serene life of the orchard where silence had come to dwell.
My life—the terrifying thoughts that burned for its sake—come, let me cast them away.

Desire, begone from me!
I shall dance with the twelve months—with nightingales and dunnocks, with gods crowned in barley, with green-browed evening cicadas—and with the clear radiance of this sky perfumed through Goddess Pomone's most lofty, most gentle, and beautifully serene divine hands that stretch across my view.

Gazing at Spain Comtesse Mathieu de Noailles

Upon the parched garden's surface, the sun blazed; the dahlia's first bloom, battered by the evening shower, leaned its long verdant stem against the white house wall.

The sea roared across; the wind blowing like a young satyr tore at garments pressed by its hands, seeking to disgrace the young woman on the road. Warmly, drowsily faded the twilight in the Basque village. I gazed upon strange Spain—suddenly dyed and shining in the setting sun—there in the distance.

Were I to stretch my arm long over the horizon, I might touch earth that seemed to burn and crimson pomegranates. O land resplendent with golden light! Birds did not fly, clouds did not gather, beneath a sky whose hues never faded. O aimless wandering through parched yellow Toboso valley, where even one's body might burn! Dyeing silk garments in chili-red and orange-flame hues—how Spain's clamorous, restless dance resounded! Did I not hear it again? The blood-smeared Troubadour—a youth of gaudy valor—and cries that would collapse Arènne's stands at the slaughtered bull.

O lands of Tolède and Andalousie!
From what realm did you bring this voiceless, blazing frenzy?
Terrifying madness of ardent passion!
Pasiphaé thirsting for her beloved man's blood - intoxicated by that robust warrior's lifeblood flowing from his wounds, had combined and tasted pleasure with pious awe in the bodily shudder of lust and terror,

My body here, enveloped in France's gentle atmosphere, finds my heart quaking and my chest growing heavy.
The smiling, tranquil mountains and waters of Basque.
Clouds gather and rest upon Guéthary's summit.
I think of Rodrigue, I think of Saint Thérèse.
As dusk, imbued with a crisp fragrance, mingles shadows and light with tinted sands, from behind the rugged mountains where sweet tamarisks stand row upon row, comes the sound of a train whistle bound for Irun.

Sacred Spain.
Ah, tonight I cannot endure this turmoil of heart that yearns to possess you!

Chrysanthemum Song Shiyaru Gurandmūran

The dahlia flowers withered, the vineyard's harvest was completed,
The cries of unsated snipes too had ceased.
All manner of fruits had fully ripened.
The raspberries were picked completely, and now the garden lay desolate.

The sky clouded over as the mist rose and drifted;
That nostalgia and loneliness of dusk drifted even in the dawn's sky.

Upon the yellowed lawn，roses had fallen，
Not even a trace of their petals remained.

Nevertheless, these falling leaves and this wind—
And yet this grey sky in the shadow of the melancholy day stands superior.
Upon chrysanthemum blooms—detestable flies—
No moth-kisses linger.

In the frost-withered thicket, these flowers flicker forth.

How striking the pure, clear yellow and orange-red!

In their midst lies what seems but dawn's haze,
There are also those that hang like scarlet tassels.
Ah, indeed—the flowers tucked into your jet-black hair near the collar,
Since the wild chrysanthemums along the path display vivid hues in rare and varied splendor,
Even were it a bouquet that my beloved has brought and offered with their own hands,
Were it but common city flowers, what would it matter?
The proud-faced lilies, the camellia bouquets crafted with chill artifice,

Beckoning toward some vaguely terrifying sinful play,

The chrysanthemum bouquet blooming in the field swayed in the cold wind carrying dew,

The sultry city of nocturnal revelries bore no relation.

The steps of city dwellers frail against the cold already chased after fire,

The quiet lane of the manor gone without trace,

In the desolate sorrow of the wind's lament, gazing upon the sky where clouds grew thin,

This flower alone bloomed peacefully in profusion.

That was only the poet.

When November came and both vineyards and cattle-grazing fields turned yellow,

The one who came quietly to gaze upon chrysanthemum flowers was none but the poet.

The poet detested and feared the interactions of a heartless world,
As if visiting the hermitage of a confidant.

When I Was Young and Wept Too Much Fernand Gregh

In youth I did nothing but weep and weep over trifles,

That "Sorrow"
What was this? Now Sorrow had grown so distant!

The Princess of Sorrow called me with wondrous words,

How vain that she beckoned me into dim shadows!

My eyes—the tears had parched and dried.

Beloved "Sorrow"
Now you had become a fleeting being.

Had there been a fitting moment, might we have conversed—Mr. Tsuji’s

Though they drew near, I did not welcome them.

Since parting, I have neither seen nor known.

All things indeed belong to youth's days.
Heart and heart now find no passage.

The Sunken Bell Stuart Merrill

Could I be a monarch of the ancient world that has passed away?

The capital of that land lay sunken at the ocean's depths, soundless.

How many times in bygone ages had the voiceless bronze bell
resounded loudly through countless springs?

I had vanished countless generations ago -
I who must have known the names of many consorts.

Those names scattered and vanished in the still midnight,
like withered flowers.

The heavy ship that carried my precious treasures -
where has it gone, that sunken fate?

From that time onward I searched for treasures deep beneath the waves.
I have indeed become a madman.

The multitudes of barbarians who followed me in ancient times,
who proclaimed my victory high beneath the sky and raised black mourning flags in my name,
that glory of a bygone age enshrined in the capital—
why do I now yearn to behold them anew?
Now with cold eyes,
gazing at the moonlight, sword in hand,
would I carve my name across the vast sky
while awaiting an age yet unborn?
Yet this hope of victory—
now my breast chokes with smoldering wrath.
The triumphs of transient generations...
How many times have I...

Did I not hear the trumpet's voice that vanished in the storm?

The voice of the bronze bell that had announced the springs of generations past.

Where now has that bell sunk?

Truly I am—the capital of that land lies sunken at the ocean's depths, voiceless—
I was indeed the sovereign of primeval eras long past.

Summer Night’s Well Stuart Merrill

In moonlight that awakens even a slumbering girl’s dreams,

The watchdog’s howl became nothing but a vivid blue shadow.

A single small star—a droplet of flame—

Having fallen to the bottom of the inn's well,
Like children who had just begun to know love,

When the two of us were gazing.

From my swift fingertips unraveling your hair,

Your long hair

Your long hair flowed into the inn's well.

I shall not forget.

The crickets from their elevated perch,
Laundry hung taut on ropes,
Unstirred by winds yet parched dry,
Kept wailing toward river slopes.
"It was said that 'Fear' roamed abroad."
The copse on yonder knoll stood awed,
Swaddled thick within night’s black shroud.

The loud voices of people drinking at bars,
like a hushed winter night,
tin vessels and Seto ware,
the lamplight illuminating glass cups vanished along with them.

“You whispered something in a low voice,”
I pressed that whisper against your lips—
crushed it upon the red petals blooming this June,
taking your trembling hands from your chest,

I too had said something to you in the same manner,
but now I no longer remember what exactly I had said.

In your bare arms,

I was held but briefly—
on the highway leading through the forest, it was as if—
like one who wanted to smother something in silence and blood—
as if it were but a mad dream of memories—
suddenly, the clamor of drunken people could be heard.
You and I, just like that, parted ways
by the well where starlit dewdrops showered down.

Luxury Albert Samain

Luxury becomes the death-fruit upon the Tree of Life.
The forbidden fruit that sets envy's teeth on edge.
A golden beast sitting in the desert of ennui.
A woman defiled, born from aged "Lust" and "Night".
The diamond of "Vice" inlaid beneath sevenfold brocade.
Fire of fire.
Blood of blood.
Marrow of marrow within the bone.
A vagrant witch bearing potions from the earth's depths.
A witch sucking out brain matter and sapping vital energy.
Thus shall I proclaim:
The profoundly mysterious "Luxury".
Ah, O magnificent one, this 'Luxury' of the palace of darkness!

Luxury was the carnal festival enthroned in splendor.
Crown of disgrace.
Mantle of defilement.

Nakedness.
A noble crimson garden of feminine beauty.

A heaven of flesh that made the soul choke with tears.

Endless tresses stirred the balmy night air.

The occult art of shadowed fragrances.
Dark fragrance.

The song of the torrential bloodflow.
The rapturous sighs of drunken collapse.

Pleasure's bodily thrill.
Gentle contact's ever-increasing languid undulations.

A gentle contact numbing the nerves……a gentle contact never fully known.

A gaze-overflowing gentle contact……a soul-vanishing gentle contact.

The sound of music resounded from unbearable sweetness' floral shade……a heart faded away.

The fatigue of joy's plectrum plucked soundless strings.

Ah, O lips! O lips!
A fading kiss.
A teeth-sinking kiss.

Lips were as profound as death in obsession's bedchamber.

Thus shall I proclaim:
The profoundly mysterious "Luxury".

Ah, O magnificent one!
This "Luxury" that is a red star in sorrow's sky.

Luxury is a slender venomous serpent lurking behind human bones.

Desire sharpened like scissor tips.

An intoxicated alarm bell sang of ominous hours.

The demonic realm's angel—a nun of nightshade envying purity.

Thorns of insomnia raged against wakefulness.

Demons wriggling on sleep's lofty walls formed a grand mural of nocturnal revelry.

As four bamboo clappers beat their chaotic rhythm, the brocade curtain parted slightly.

The void's chalice startled Tantalus, god of envy.

A burning ice block blazed.
A freezing flame crystallized.

The beasts of revelry slept in squalid stables.

Thus shall I proclaim:
The profoundly mysterious "Luxury".

Ah, O magnificent one!
"Luxury" of greedy eyes keeping watch over the floating world.

Luxury was the tropics' violent fantasy.

Princes of barbarous lands arrayed with feathered ornaments and spears.

The astounding jade palace by GANGES River.

A vast garden.
A lake of fragrance.
Buried gold.

The dreadful germinal month of the scorching equator.

The golden desolation wrought by swarming beetles.

Wool and pungent fragrance and vertigo.

A blood-colored moon illuminated the poisonous marsh pond tinged with green.

Thus I proclaimed:
The profoundly mysterious "Luxury".
Ah, O magnificent one!

This "Luxury" that was a fearsome idol of darkness.

Luxury was the pallid-faced emperor of madness's head ornament.

A red-haired, tall-statured prostitute's neck ornament.

Queen of rhythm and dance and mime.

A triumphal arch of DÉCADANCE built with gold.

Surrounded by majestic tigers and marble,

The terrifying dream of debauchery's emperor.

A flower drenched in blood.
Pleasure and sorrow.

"Death" that drained every sweetness from the blossom's calyx.

Instruments arrayed amidst raging flames.

"Death" familiar with tombs' green-tinged lamplight.

The solar realm's downfall.
The supreme honorific.

The grand religion of fevered excitation.

That phosphorescent instant when artistry flashed—

Final revels...final breath...death rattles thin as thread.

Thus I proclaim:
The profoundly mysterious "Luxury".
Ah, O magnificent one!

This "Luxury" of leprous decay glittering with golden radiance.

Luxury became the fevered breath exhaled from carnal desire's breast.

The crimson sea of roaring physical tremors named craving.

Pleasure's vineyard.
A grape cluster ripe and heavy-laden.
An exquisite rarity.

The wine of lust that drove mutual hungers to frenzy.

A sovereign remedy for love's anguish.
A stimulant exacerbating bitter grudges.

A pilgrims' refuge along heart-journey pathways.

An eternal impulse birthed from momentary sparks.

Fantastical beasts raced while drinking from overflowing founts.

A place where ascetics purify hearts.
The heart unafraid of those who dread.

Slave's opium.
Leper's bitch.

A clear water jug that touched parched lips and would not let go.

The strong's weakness.
The weak's strength.

The midnight's toxic herb that slew remorse.

A gourd water vessel that could make even the dead open their mouths.

Hoisted sails and embarked upon the sea of excess

The towering ship of boundless nostalgia.

Flared its nostrils and bristled its fur,

The knight's mare charged toward the void.

The still-burning tower of GOMORRHE far in the distance,

The sulfurous lake overlooked the flames of SODOME's garden.

Resigned to its existence's end, Luxury gazed upward at the heavens of anguish.

Martyr.
Tears of joy filled a tormented heart.

The king of demons sat amidst flames, conducting a defiled festival,

The dark tower concentrated eternal prayers.

Sacrilegious hunger that brought death.
Thirst and famine.

A bottomless abyss.
A shadowless sun disc.
An endless vortex.

The nerve of nerves, the oxygen of oxygen that was "Luxury".

The cursed self-destructive love that became the final "Luxury".

Convulsion longing for chaotic unity.
A feast within the Absolute.

The end of worlds.
The culmination of celestial rotations that was "Luxury".

The Saint of Supplication and Mercy.
The Saint of Golden Blood.

The Saint of Avarice and Ruthlessness.
The Saint Eternal and Holy.

City of flames.
Elixir of oblivion.
A black iron auger.

Saint of Decadence.
Hell's NOTRE-DAME.

Thus shall I compare.
"The mysterious and distant 'Luxury'."
O sublime!

This "Luxury" that could be likened to the immortal consort of this world.