The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Monday, August 5, 2019

* * *

Memory returns
to those ancient misty trails
around my village --
but neither flowers nor love
bloom there -- only my sadness.

*   *   *
It was my favorite
place for cherry blossom shade
now gone forever

*  *  *
This field wren,
searching here, there, everywhere --
has she lost something?


 --Kobayashi Issa
translated by Sam Hamil

Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)