Classic Poem

At Shoanji, an old temple of the Jodo sect,
in the rustic town called Hanamaki, Oshu,
on the anniversary of your death, in recurring autumn showers,
I had a truly modest service for you.
The town of Hanamaki was also bombed
and the Shoanji, completely burnt,
was a shed, a two-mat place
with an altar in it.
The rain blew in through the papered doors behind me,
wetting the skirt of the priest's robe.
The priest read the One Page on Salvation
as prescribed, in a quiet voice, feelingly.
The terrifying truth of the confession of someone in the ancient past
who cast himself out, believing in the Buddha,
struck me, living now, as very much alive.
In front of the Buddha in the shed-altar of Shoanji
I again remembered intensely
the procession of your life, which, your trust boundless,
burned up for me.