- Top
- -
- Heike Monogatari
Since this is Ari— a name that says regret still remains at parting— the god must be sending down his grace in these white breakers
Since this is the Bay of Ari, whose very name says regret remains at parting, the god must be casting his grace over us in these white breakers.
A thousand years long your life shall run—and hoping for as much, the vine of wisteria has come to hang on the pine's branches
Your life shall run a thousand years—and hoping for as much itself, the wisteria has come to hang upon the branches of the pine.
Wringing out the white sleeves of my robe, white as the breaking waves—for you I cannot even rise up and stand to dance as I should
Wringing the white sleeves of my robe, white as the breaking waves—it is for your sake that I cannot even rise and dance.
Think of me: your face rises before me each time the waves rise and come breaking in against the shore, and my sleeves are wet again
Think of me: each time the waves rise and come breaking in, your face rises before me, and my sleeves are wet again.
If you long for him, come and see him where he is— this shadow that clings so close upon my body, how could I ever let go
If you long for him, come and see him here. This shadow that clings so close to my own body—how could I ever let it go?
The mountain monks' robes of thin-drawn silk are so thin that not even they could manage to cover up the shame that was underneath
The mountain monks' robes of thin-drawn silk were too thin to cover up the shame beneath them.
We who never got so much as one strip of that thin-drawn silk are still counted in among the ones who wear a thin coat of shame
We who never got so much as a single strip of that thin-drawn silk are counted all the same among those wearing a thin coat of shame.
Ise's warriors, in armor laced with scarlet, have to the last man been caught and held fast within the fish weirs of Uji stream
The warriors of Ise, in armor laced with scarlet, have every one of them been caught in the fish weirs of the Uji.
A buried tree that never came into flower— and now at the end my body has borne its fruit, and bitter the bearing is
A buried tree that never came into flower—and now at the last my life has borne its fruit, and bitter that fruit is.
The keeper of the great inner mountain, whom no one knows, only sees the moon from where he stands, hid away among the branches
The keeper of the great inner mountain, whom no one knows, only looks at the moon from where he stands hidden among the trees.
Having no footing by which to climb, I gather acorns on the ground beneath the tree, and with them I make my way through this world
Having no means by which to climb, I gather acorns on the ground beneath the tree, and with them make my way through the world.
A hundred years turned four times over have gone by here at Otagi— and must this village of ours now come at last to ruin
A hundred years turned four times over have passed here at Otagi—and must it now come at last to ruin?
To turn and cast off the capital of flowers for a windswept plain— what lies at the end of it is surely a thing to fear
To turn away from the capital of flowers for a plain where the wind blows—what lies at the end of that is surely to be feared.
Set against the bell tolling the hours of a night spent in waiting—what is the cry of the cock at the morning of his going
Set against the bell tolling through a night spent waiting, what is the cry of the cock on the morning he goes?
The cry of the cock you once called a thing of no account—why should it, this morning of all mornings, sound so sorrowful to me
The cry of the cock, which you once called a thing of no account—why should it sound so sorrowful this morning of all mornings?
Only for one who waits would the deepening bell be hard to bear. Now it is the cock at morning, crying your going, that hurts
Only for one who waits would the deepening bell be hard to bear. It is the cock at morning, crying your going, that hurts now.