Okhotsk Elegy
The sea is rusted by the morning's carbon dioxide.
Some parts show verdigris, some azurite.
There where the waves curl, the liquid is fearfully emerald.
The ears of the timothy, grown so short,
are one by one blown by the wind.
(They are blue piano keys
pressed one by one by the wind)
The timothy may be a short variety.
Among dewdrops, morning-glories bloom,
the glory of the morning-glories.
Here comes the steppe cart I saw a moment ago.
The head of the aged white draft horse droops.
I know the man is all right
because on that empty street corner
when I asked him, Where's the busiest section of the shore?
he said, It must be over there
because I've never been there.
Now he looks at me kindly from the corners of his eyes
(His small lenses
surely reflect the white clouds of Karafuto)
They look more like peonies than morning-glories,
those large blossoms of beach roses,
those scarlet morning blossoms of beach eggplant.
Ah these sharp flower scents
can, I insist, only be the elves' work
bringing forth numerous indigo butterflies —
here again, tiny golden lancelike ears,
jade vases and blue screens.
Besides, since the clouds dazzle so,
this joyous violent dizziness.
Hoofmarks, two by two,
are left on the wet quiet sand.
Of course not only the horse has passed.
The wide tracks of the cartwheels
form a soft series.
Near a white thin line waves have left
three tiny mosquitoes stray
and are being lightly blown off.
Piteous white fragments of seashells,
blue stalks of day lilies half buried in the sand.
The waves come, rolling the sand in.
I think I'll fall upon the pebbles of white schist,
hold in my mouth a slice of seashell
polished clean by the waves
and sleep for a while.
Because, for now, from the sound of these waves,
the most fragrant wind
and the light of the clouds
I must recover the transparent energy that I gave
to the morning elves of Saghalien
while I lay on the fine carpet
of blue huckleberries bearing ripe black fruit
among the large red blossoms of beach roses
and mysterious bluebells.
Besides, first of all, my imagination
has paled because of tiredness,
becoming a dazzling golden green.
From the sun's rays and the sky's layers of darkness
there even comes the strange wavering sound of a tin drum.
Desolate grass ears, the haze of light.
The verdigris extends serenely to the horizon
and from the seam of clouds, a variegated structure,
a slice of heaven's blue.
My chest retains the strong stab.
Those two kinds of blue
are both characteristics Toshiko had.
While I walk alone, tire myself out, and sleep
on a deserted coast of Karafuto,
Toshiko is at the end of that blue place,
I don't know what she's doing.
Beyond where the rough trunks and branches of white and silver firs
are in confusion, drifting, stranded,
the waves roll many times over.
Because they roll, the sand churns
and the salt water is muddy, desolate.
(Eleven fifteen. Its palely gleaming dial)
On this side of the clouds, birds move up and down.
Here a boat slipped out this morning.
The rut engraved in the sand by the keel
with the horizontal dent left by a large roller —
that's one crooked cross.
To write HELL with some small pieces of wood,
correct it to LOVE ,
and erect a cross,
since that's a technique anyone uses,
when Toshiko arranged one,
I gave her a cold smile.
(A slice of seashell buried in the sand
shows only its white rim)
The fine sand that has finally dried
flows in this engraved cross,
now steadily, steadily flowing.
When the sea is this blue
I still think of Toshiko,
and the expressions of distant people say,
Why do you mourn for just one sister so much?
And again something inside me says:
(Casual observer! Superficial traveler!)
The sky shines so, it looks empty, dark,
three sharp-winged birds fly toward me.
They've begun to cry sorrowfully.
Have they brought any news?
There's pain in half my head.
The roofs of Eihama, now distant, flare.
Just one bird blows a glass whistle,
drifting away in chalcedonous clouds.
The glitter of the town and the harbor.
The ibis-scarlet over the slope on its back
is a spread of fireweed flowers.
The fresh apple-green grassland
and a row of dark green white firs.
(Namo Saddharmapundarika Sutra)
Five tiny sandpipers
when the sea rolls in
run away, tottering
(Namo Saddharmapundarika Sutra)
when the wave recedes flatways,
over the mirror of sand
they run forward, tottering.
Some parts show verdigris, some azurite.
There where the waves curl, the liquid is fearfully emerald.
The ears of the timothy, grown so short,
are one by one blown by the wind.
(They are blue piano keys
pressed one by one by the wind)
The timothy may be a short variety.
Among dewdrops, morning-glories bloom,
the glory of the morning-glories.
Here comes the steppe cart I saw a moment ago.
The head of the aged white draft horse droops.
I know the man is all right
because on that empty street corner
when I asked him, Where's the busiest section of the shore?
he said, It must be over there
because I've never been there.
Now he looks at me kindly from the corners of his eyes
(His small lenses
surely reflect the white clouds of Karafuto)
They look more like peonies than morning-glories,
those large blossoms of beach roses,
those scarlet morning blossoms of beach eggplant.
Ah these sharp flower scents
can, I insist, only be the elves' work
bringing forth numerous indigo butterflies —
here again, tiny golden lancelike ears,
jade vases and blue screens.
Besides, since the clouds dazzle so,
this joyous violent dizziness.
Hoofmarks, two by two,
are left on the wet quiet sand.
Of course not only the horse has passed.
The wide tracks of the cartwheels
form a soft series.
Near a white thin line waves have left
three tiny mosquitoes stray
and are being lightly blown off.
Piteous white fragments of seashells,
blue stalks of day lilies half buried in the sand.
The waves come, rolling the sand in.
I think I'll fall upon the pebbles of white schist,
hold in my mouth a slice of seashell
polished clean by the waves
and sleep for a while.
Because, for now, from the sound of these waves,
the most fragrant wind
and the light of the clouds
I must recover the transparent energy that I gave
to the morning elves of Saghalien
while I lay on the fine carpet
of blue huckleberries bearing ripe black fruit
among the large red blossoms of beach roses
and mysterious bluebells.
Besides, first of all, my imagination
has paled because of tiredness,
becoming a dazzling golden green.
From the sun's rays and the sky's layers of darkness
there even comes the strange wavering sound of a tin drum.
Desolate grass ears, the haze of light.
The verdigris extends serenely to the horizon
and from the seam of clouds, a variegated structure,
a slice of heaven's blue.
My chest retains the strong stab.
Those two kinds of blue
are both characteristics Toshiko had.
While I walk alone, tire myself out, and sleep
on a deserted coast of Karafuto,
Toshiko is at the end of that blue place,
I don't know what she's doing.
Beyond where the rough trunks and branches of white and silver firs
are in confusion, drifting, stranded,
the waves roll many times over.
Because they roll, the sand churns
and the salt water is muddy, desolate.
(Eleven fifteen. Its palely gleaming dial)
On this side of the clouds, birds move up and down.
Here a boat slipped out this morning.
The rut engraved in the sand by the keel
with the horizontal dent left by a large roller —
that's one crooked cross.
To write HELL with some small pieces of wood,
correct it to LOVE ,
and erect a cross,
since that's a technique anyone uses,
when Toshiko arranged one,
I gave her a cold smile.
(A slice of seashell buried in the sand
shows only its white rim)
The fine sand that has finally dried
flows in this engraved cross,
now steadily, steadily flowing.
When the sea is this blue
I still think of Toshiko,
and the expressions of distant people say,
Why do you mourn for just one sister so much?
And again something inside me says:
(Casual observer! Superficial traveler!)
The sky shines so, it looks empty, dark,
three sharp-winged birds fly toward me.
They've begun to cry sorrowfully.
Have they brought any news?
There's pain in half my head.
The roofs of Eihama, now distant, flare.
Just one bird blows a glass whistle,
drifting away in chalcedonous clouds.
The glitter of the town and the harbor.
The ibis-scarlet over the slope on its back
is a spread of fireweed flowers.
The fresh apple-green grassland
and a row of dark green white firs.
(Namo Saddharmapundarika Sutra)
Five tiny sandpipers
when the sea rolls in
run away, tottering
(Namo Saddharmapundarika Sutra)
when the wave recedes flatways,
over the mirror of sand
they run forward, tottering.
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