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Three Naga Uta from Hitomaro
CV
When she was still alive
We would go out, arm in arm,
And look at the elm trees
Growing on the embenkment
In front of our hous.
Their branches were intelaced.
Their crowns were dense with spring leaves.
They were like our love.
Love and trust were not enough to turn back
The wheels of life and death.
She faded like a mirage over the desert.
One morning like a bird she was gone
In the white scarves of death.
Now when the child
Whom she left in her memory
Cries and begs for her,
All I can do is pick him up
And hug him clumsily.
I have nothing to give him.
In our bedroom our pillows
Still lie side by side,
As we lay once.
I sit there by myself
And let the days grow dark.
I lie awake at night, sighing till daylight.
No matter how much I mourn I shall never see her again.
They tell me her spirit**
May haunt Mount Hagai
Under the eagles' wings.
I struggle over the ridges
And climb to the summit.
I know all the time
That I shall never see her,
Not even so much as a faint quiver in the air.
All my longing, all my love
Will never make any difference.
(from "One Hundred Poems from the Japanese)
transl. by Kenneth Rexroth
Utsusemi* to
Omoishi tki ni
Torimochite
Waga futari mishi
Hashiri de no
Tsutsumi ni tateru
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* Utsusemi (modern Japanese, utsushimi) means the "bosy", the mortal part", but written with different Chinese characers (modern Japanese, still utsusemi), it also means the cast-off shell of an insect, a favorite image in Japanese for the transitoriness of life.
** Ō tori no, "great bird" is a pillow word for Mount Hagai; it is applied to the hōō, swan, eagle crane, etc. Presumably she was buried on Mount Hagai.
CV
When she was still alive
We would go out, arm in arm,
And look at the elm trees
Growing on the embenkment
In front of our hous.
Their branches were intelaced.
Their crowns were dense with spring leaves.
They were like our love.
Love and trust were not enough to turn back
The wheels of life and death.
She faded like a mirage over the desert.
One morning like a bird she was gone
In the white scarves of death.
Now when the child
Whom she left in her memory
Cries and begs for her,
All I can do is pick him up
And hug him clumsily.
I have nothing to give him.
In our bedroom our pillows
Still lie side by side,
As we lay once.
I sit there by myself
And let the days grow dark.
I lie awake at night, sighing till daylight.
No matter how much I mourn I shall never see her again.
They tell me her spirit**
May haunt Mount Hagai
Under the eagles' wings.
I struggle over the ridges
And climb to the summit.
I know all the time
That I shall never see her,
Not even so much as a faint quiver in the air.
All my longing, all my love
Will never make any difference.
(from "One Hundred Poems from the Japanese)
transl. by Kenneth Rexroth
Utsusemi* to
Omoishi tki ni
Torimochite
Waga futari mishi
Hashiri de no
Tsutsumi ni tateru
читать дальше
* Utsusemi (modern Japanese, utsushimi) means the "bosy", the mortal part", but written with different Chinese characers (modern Japanese, still utsusemi), it also means the cast-off shell of an insect, a favorite image in Japanese for the transitoriness of life.
** Ō tori no, "great bird" is a pillow word for Mount Hagai; it is applied to the hōō, swan, eagle crane, etc. Presumably she was buried on Mount Hagai.