… In the depths of winter,
The snow-covered fields
Are like a frozen sea,
And I am a small boat
Tossed about on its waves.
A single blossom
On the far side of a deep stream—
How can I get to it?
And if I did, what would I do with it?
In the depths of winter,
when the frozen pond is covered
with a sheet of ice,
it is as if the world were a single jewel
set in a silver bowl.
Looking back, I can see
the years like a procession of clouds,
and behind them the distant peaks
of the sacred mountains of my homeland—
unreachable now, forever beyond my grasp.
The maple leaves
have turned to crimson flames—
and in the chilly blast
of autumn’s first storm
they are scattered and blown.
At the end of the year,
when all is cold and still,
the snow on the mountain
seems to hold the silence
of a thousand years.
Faintly, from far away,
comes the sound of a temple bell,
and in the silence of night
it seems to say, “Remember—
the minutes, the hours, the days.”
In the spring,
the cherry blossoms;
in the summer,
the cuckoo;
in autumn,
the moon;
in winter,
the snow—
if only life could be so simple!
[Variant:]
In the spring,
the willow’s tender shoots;
in summer, the long days;
in autumn, the harvest moon;
in winter, the snow—
if only life could be so simple!
The autumn wind
blows through the empty house—
and in the grief of separation
a swallow comes,
to build its nest once more.
Kneeling in my garden,
I gaze up at the stars—
and suddenly, above the sound
of the wind in the trees,
I hear the music of the ages.
Mountain village, mountain village—
in the stillness of winter,
the smoke from your hearth
clings to the thatched roofs,
like a prayer.
Nights when the moon is bright,
the sound of someone weeping
drifts across the river—
and in the morning,
the dew on the reeds is like tears.
The autumn night is long,
and in the stillness
I can hear the sound of distant music—
a song from another time,
another place.
O autumn wind,
blowing through the empty house—
please don’t disturb
the spider’s web in the corner,
where the dust has gathered.
Sitting by the window,
looking out at the garden,
I am lost in thought—
and in the slow leisure of autumn
the hours slip away.
The autumn hills are empty,
and in the silence
I can hear the sound of rustling leaves—
the sound of time passing,
the sound of my own life, slipping away.
Pondering the impermanence of all things,
I watch the changing seasons—
and in the autumn of my life,
I am like a tree that has lost its leaves,
waiting for the coming of winter.
The crescent moon
is like a curved blade—
and on its shining edge
the stars are like drops of blood
spattered by a wounded deer.
The spring wind blows,
and on the fields the newly planted rice
is like a green sea
rippled by the wind—
a sea that goes on and on,
to the far horizon.
Reeds and rushes,
bowing in the wind,
seem to be whispering
secrets to each other—
and I am filled with envy.
Dreaming, I wandered
in a world of mist and shadow,
where the trees were skeletons
and the ground was strewn
with the bones of men.
The river flows on,
and the years pass by—
but in my heart I know
that time has stopped forever,
at the moment we said goodbye.
The maple leaves
Are red as flame—
But in my heart,
Only ashes remain
Of the dreams of youth.
Violets bloom
in the shadow of the cliff—
but who will ever see them,
hidden as they are
from the world above?
The warbler’s nest
is hidden in the depths
of the thicket—
but I can see it,
clear as day, in my mind.
The setting sun
is like a great wheel of fire—
and on its rim the clouds
are like scraps of paper
caught in the flames.
The setting sun
is like a bowl of blood,
spilling its crimson contents
over the fields and forests—
a fitting end to a day of slaughter.
At the end of autumn,
when the leaves are all falling,
every day is like a page
being torn from the calendar of the year—
and how many pages are left?
The nightingale’s song
is like a jewel falling
into the silence of the night—
and how many such jewels
are there, waiting to be found?
Zōjō-ji,
the temple of the long-lived,
stands there in the midst of Tokyo,
and yet the years pass by
and it is almost forgotten.
The murmuring noise of the village
Falls on the ear like the sound of the sea;
And in the darkness one sees
The light of the lamp in the fisherman’s hut,
Like a star on the water.
Zealous for law and order,
The new magistrate comes to town—
And the boss of the thieves
Sighs with relief,
“Here at last is a real man!”
The cuckoo’s call,
The line of geese against the sky—
Ah, these are links
That join the heart of autumn
To memories of long ago.
Zigzag pines,
On the mountain slope they struggle
To outlast the winter—
So many things in this world
So hard to understand!
Zealous courtiers proudly
View the plum blossoms on the castle moat,
And as they gaze,
They think that in their own lives
Such blossoms too will bloom.
---
“The Setting Sun”
The setting sun is like a great eye
that looks down on the world and sees
the emptiness of all things.
The shadows of evening stretch out like black wings,
and the last rays of the day are like golden needles
that sew up the night.
Everything is still; the leaves hang motionless
on the trees, and the grasses stand stiff and straight.
The world is like a great book that has been read
to the end, and all that is left is the silence
of the pages turning.
T