秋

In the autumn fields the thatch of my makeshift hut is coarsely woven, and my sleeves keep growing wet with dew.

Deep in the hills a stag treads through fallen maple leaves and cries. Hearing it, autumn is saddest of all.

No sooner does it blow than the autumn grasses wither — no wonder they write the mountain wind as 'storm'.

Looking at the moon, a thousand sorrows crowd in, though the autumn is not mine alone.

Across the autumn field, where the wind keeps blowing on the white dew, unstrung jewels are scattering.

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

Loneliness drove me out of the house to look around, and everywhere it was the same: an autumn evening.

As evening comes it rustles the rice leaves by the gate — the autumn wind, blowing on my reed-thatched hut.

I lived on the promise you made, like dew on a moxa leaf — and now this autumn too is passing.

Through a break in the clouds trailing on the autumn wind, the moonlight spills out, clear and cold.

The dew of the passing shower has not yet dried on the cedar leaves, and already mist is rising. An autumn evening.

Autumn wind off the mountains of Yoshino; the night deepens, the old village is cold, and someone is beating cloth.

名に「秋」を含む

名に「秋」を含む

名に「秋」を含む

名に「秋」を含む