Summer travel
I. The song at the end of the village
Was in bloom, a Bird’s-foot trefoil, and
I picked by fingers, it told me through the light–
The right is the path from the north to Echigo
The left is the Nakasendo at Kiso
On the fine evening after the rain, we’ll stay looking absent-mindedly at the sky
And, I’d walk straight across the evening, my dingy home village
By the tussock grass of Batohcannon, we stood wordless by the first time of our lives
II. For the goat
The little bridge, said the road entered the village this way
In the shade of a tree on the coastal podocarps, a very old black house….. to this garden
An old goat was put by the chain, as the nice joy of a pitiful boy
To everyone, the goat answered with a voice that trembled–
Always travellers, would pass and see to thee in a moment
III. Bucolic
The mill alone in the village
In summer, the roof smoked
It sang merry songs all day long and never tired of singing
What was the mill doing
To the stream, to the sun, it harmonised to sing your slowed steps
What was the mill spinning at
IV. Rest – A personal letter to I.T.
Formerly, when I came across the dream was beautiful, there was not the thing more beautiful than the dream in this world. But, today, if things that more beautiful than the dream surrounds me, that’s how happy I am. On the Shinano plateau, the flowers of common buckwheat bloom in the clear air, and the grasses of the pampas float, the stripes of the mountain lines were counted, there is the existence of beautiful clouds incredible to the sky very blue. I opened my ear towards the subtle tone of wind, but it whispers the correct words in this world. Finally, I do not want to express who my heart means by my words. How, I say, and I demand. It is reasonable, that I think such and such with zeal. T, to be like that is pleasant. The sky very high unfathomable. I am small so, also I am great so.
V. Towards the cemetery
To the thin path in the thick fog, the very sonorous voice invited me, the bottom of the wood I arrived first time.
To the hillside of the birch trees– ah, my fantasy! (The branches, sang the song of the sky which flew by the wind)
VI. Death of summer
Summer passed hastily away
For yet another journey
We counted the days that remained unshadowed
Watching the clouds and the steam weighing on the volcano
We stayed a cold room a little, most of the time
Chatting about trivial flowers and the gossip of the townsfolk
On a drizzly day I’d walk the person to the car park
At the entrance to the village, the small leaves of the pine trees were falling in the cold wind, non-stop
…… An inn had free rooms, since that night, I wrote the letters always, only on the weak lamp
VII. The end of the journey
Last night, the moon that sees the moonrise
Became the moon at noon, floated the morning sky
Bright ultramarine blue ran across the sky
It was said to disperse and change to white clouds, also this moon
Many times I looked back, many times I looked back
The traveller, raising his eyes to the sky, had an inexhaustible resentment to the people left behind
And felt the sad lie without limit
Words from the rain
I’m cold little
Because I was only going through everything
In a drizzle
My palms, my forehead, stayed wet
Before I knew it I was going dark
I lean on here like this
And wait for the lamp to light
Outside the weak rain without sound continues to rain
On a manless fish tank, on a roof
On the umbrellas of men
It wanders forever
Before long it will turn into a smoky fog……
I don’t know and I don’t hope
She says something about a day
About the silence and the warm morning
The subtle murmur of the rain, of a kind
And it changes variously
Listening to it
I unknowingly fell asleep as always
Entering summer
Like a palm, it was beautiful calm weather. I thought some where I’d seen Sunday like this.
In the night, the fog descended out of the window. We were gathering. Around the candle. We even knitted words sometimes, around the chatter remained a little.
On our hands, the morning bouquet didn’t stay. …..Il was like the colour of the country away from my mother and family.
Insects sang. The crickets continued to sing, which is the monkey of late summer. A person was listening but he got bored and went out somewhere.
I was thinking about tomorrow. About the thing I can’t listen to or talk about. ……The window was open. The moonrise shone clearly through the window, through the fog ran soundlessly.
Travel diary: The day, to Tsutomu Ikuta
This city, a front of a library — I was listening, the voice of a young Turkish woman. I received a song book with a beautiful red cover. Like children singing.
And I tilted my umbrella a few times, and I saw the sky. The sky was completely grey, but it’s unfathomably high. The day of quiet rain.
People whispered to the young traveller. What were you looking at?
Yes. I was looking at a young Turkish woman, later at a park, at the end of the little dark city.
— One of these days I’ll sell Novalis and Rilke. The day ended as such, the girl of the blazing sky….. My reverie was like a hard and sour fruit.
I prepare the candles did not burn entirely to the girl. For I do not forget memoirs of the trip. — The end of the summer, to the city has ancient castle, I received, by the girl, this book of song, I continued to travel.
The noon of a lonely day
Hiding from me a tuft of wet grass
I repeated
Various, narrow positions
How miserably pleasant they were
The conviction that I was seen by none
Earlier, an invitation to confession and…
This time, midday
Seemed to feel
The sun made the coquette gently
Tumult ceased while I ignored
Only the song of the birds, singing in the distance
Ah, innocent
A moment was knotted, that will be gone
To the rightness of this desire
Requiem
At the tiled window, she reflected
Passed, an inclined shadow of a person
Piled up, piled up and tangled, erased
erased……
This moment, this moment
Like a shadow, she would go on like that
Always, always
She wrote characters that laughed at her
When she passed away, she’d smile a little…
But this voice, me
By another, I was heard only
On a table, the shadow of a flower fell, the shadow of a dish
If I touched them with my fingers
My memories would fade one by one, a faint sound would erase
Basket of the Sky
A country girl, showed to train
And gave lessons to the neighbouring town
With a big basket in her hand
–Le retour….. The basket
Fruit, bread and flowers, was full
The girl was buried in perfume
She was fast asleep
Always, even completely
Just now when the sun was setting
At home, the basket was empty
I didn’t know why
The country girl, from the oven
Was burning with fire
This time for herself alone
She sang the song of the basket
Many birds, pearls and flowers
Paper cut-outs
The sun was setting, so the sky was undressing
And it said “Soon it will be night” to the cuckoo clock
Little stars fell from the lamp
Each one lit up the rooms of the town
Like “My room, good night!
One by one the children disappeared
The night is this story
This sad makes me happy
To summer
He waited here and like this, for a while
My boy, my secret……
Then, a person I do not know
I forget, a distant departure, from someone
He waved a handkerchief
He would look out of a window
He, waved
Finally he was going somewhere…
(Yes, I, prepared a hat
And a T-shirt whiter than paper
So I would have looked)
I waved my hand at the dock for a while
My yesterday, my boy…… After that
This man alone was not there, many departures passed by
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