人

My hut lies southeast of the capital and here I live content, yet people call it Mount Uji, the hill of gloom.

Tell them for me, fishing boats: that I have rowed out across the wide sea, past the eighty islands.

Waves draw to the shore at Suminoe. Must you too, even by night, avoid others' eyes on the path of dreams?

If it lives up to its name — the vine of Mount Osaka, the hill of meeting — let it bring you to me unseen.

A mountain village is loneliest in winter, when I think how both the visitors and the grasses have gone.

Whom shall I take now as a friend? Even the ancient pine of Takasago is no friend from the old days.

As for people, I cannot know their hearts — but in my old village the blossoms are fragrant as they always were.

It is not myself, forgotten, that I grieve for, but the life of the one who swore to me and broke the oath.

Like bamboo grass on the sparse-reeded moor I hide it, and still — why does my longing for her overflow?

I hid it, and yet it has shown in my face; my love, until people ask me what is on my mind.

Rumour that I am in love has gone around already, and I had only just begun to feel it, in secret.

If we had never met at all, I would not now resent her — nor resent myself.

I can think of no one who would say they pity me, and so it seems I must simply waste away.

Like a boatman crossing the Strait of Yura who has lost his oar — this path of love, with no knowing where it leads.

To this lonely house, overgrown with layered weeds, no one comes. Yet autumn has come.

When the wind blows through the bamboo grass of Ina, below Mount Arima — well then, could I ever forget you?

Now there is only this to say — that I give you up — and I wish I could say it myself, not through another.

Mountain cherry, feel for me as I feel for you. Here there is no one who knows me but your blossoms.

Wind off the mountains of Hatsuse, I prayed that she might soften toward me, not that you should blow so fiercely.

My sleeves are the offshore rock that never shows even at low tide: unknown to anyone, never dry for a moment.

Waiting for one who does not come, in the evening calm at Matsuho Bay — like seaweed burned for salt, I am scorched through.

I find people dear, and I resent them, because I think this world a bitter, pointless place and brood on it.

名に「人」を含む

名に「人」を含む

名に「人」を含む

名に「人」を含む