Short Poems

Though ye are girded
No more with the gleaming sword
Ready for battle,
Forget not, in idle sloth,
Yamato's keen soul to whet.

The old man leaneth
On his staff; why grieve ye sore?
I would that he should
Totter on, life's hill-slope o'er,
Yet a thousand seasons more.

Since I am convinced
That Reality is in no way
Real,
How am I to admit
That dreams are dreams?

As for this world,
That way or this way—
It is the same thing;
For both palace and cottage
Come to nothing in the end.

My existence in the world has been
(As transitory as) the reflection of the moon
Which lodges in water
Gathered in the palm of the hand,
(About which one doubts) whether it is there or not!

From Nothingness into a massive Being
Huge Mountains build their bulk into the sky.
From Being back into mere Nothingness
Blue lightning flashes in a lightning-flash
Both are illusions: mountains, however huge,
Are never born and lightnings never die
All is illusion: nothing at all is real
But the world prefers its babble of balderdash.

Encroaching on the emptiness, riot of color,
I love this uniquely, my own middle peak.
No cares at all, I lean on light staff,
I walk on calmly, following hidden tracks
On all the mountains falling of leaves is over.
And cold, azure mists form, layer upon layer.

Like the ice which melts
When spring begins
Not leaving a trace behind,
May your heart melt towards me!

The men of valour
Have gone to the honourable hunt:
The ladies
Are trailing their red petticoats
Over the clean sea-beach.

As orchard apples, so should friendship yield:
Simply,—first bud, then blossom; after which
Long trusting, while slow suns mature the rich
And perfect clusters. Late, while path-crossed field,
And streams, and all the orchard ways are sealed
With Winter's signet, and up-chimney pitch
The fire's great arms,—then is, in ingle-niche,
The gathered fruit, wine-ripe and sound, revealed!