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- Heike Monogatari
The water that runs through the split bamboo pipe turns over and is gone— and still I am not done with living in these palace walls
The water running through the bamboo pipe is never the same water twice—and still I am not done with living here inside these walls.
It is a sad thing: old tree and young, both are still mountain cherry trees— one goes first, one after, and not a blossom will remain
A sad thing: old tree and young are alike mountain cherries. One falls first, one after, and not a blossom will be left.
Night after night now I shall lie on the one sleeve of my traveling robe— and thinking of it, I see how far I am going off
Night after night I shall lie on the single sleeve of my traveling robe; and thinking of it, I see how far away I am going.
How frail it all is— once the master has gone off beyond the cloud line, the house he lived in goes up and rises away as smoke
How frail it is—once the master has gone off beyond the clouds, the house he lived in rises away as smoke.
I look back and see my old home a burnt-out field, and what lies ahead is a road across the waves, as without form as the smoke
Looking back, I see my old home a burnt-out field; and ahead lies a road over the waves, as formless as that smoke.
Sing out even once, cuckoo, and remember then that night long ago in the ancient wood whose name is the word for growing old
Sing out even once, cuckoo, and remember that night long ago in the wood of Oiso, whose name is the word for growing old.
Even the caged bird I envy—the mountain tit— while I keep myself, with all that I amount to, hidden in this humble hut
I envy even the caged bird, the mountain tit, while I keep myself and all I amount to hidden away in this poor hut.
How I long for it, the old city where I lived— and the god himself must know that longing, must know it from his own long-ago
How I long for the old city where I lived—and the god himself must know that longing, from his own long ago.
Against the world's grief even gods can do nothing— so what is it that you are praying for, wearing your whole heart out in asking
Against the grief of this world even the gods can do nothing—so what is it you are praying for, wearing your whole heart out in the asking?
The hope that somehow it might yet come right, and the crying of insects— both have worn themselves out now here at the close of autumn
The hope that somehow it might yet come right, and the crying of the insects—both have worn themselves out now, here at the close of autumn.
Only the friend who watched the moon with me last year on this very night— is he the one, back in the capital, who thinks of me
Only the friend who watched the moon with me on this same night last year—is it he, back in the capital, who thinks of me now?
How I long for her— all through this same night last year we talked and made vows, and now she comes back to me whether I will it or not
How I long for the one with whom, all through this same night last year, I talked and exchanged vows—she comes back to me now whether I will it or not.
I did not vanish with the dew on the wild grass I came parting through, and here I am, watching the moon over a village unlooked-for
I did not vanish with the dew of the wild grass I came parting through, and here I stand, watching the moon over a village I never looked to see.
Even now I live, if living is what this is— and here in a dream I find that I am dreaming yet another dream again
I am alive to this day, if this can be called being alive—and here inside a dream I find I am dreaming yet another dream.
Unknown to any, I send my thoughts of you there, westward, entrusting them to the moon as it leans over and goes down the sky
Unknown to anyone, I send my longing for you westward, entrusting it to the moon as it leans down the sky.
The catalpa bow handed down from man to man among warriors is a thing that one draws—not a thing one turns back again
The catalpa bow handed down among warriors is a thing to be drawn, not a thing to be turned back.