Mokichi Saito

The faintly glowing
color of the maples,
when it fades away
before the falling of snow,
serenity in mountains.
This living creature,
each breath that I am taking,
is befag observed
by one climbing up a window,
a praying mantis, alone. Awakened
from winter sleep a frog
climbs up onto
the top of leftover snow
and stretches himself out flat.
The red-throated
chimney swallows, two of them,
upon the rafters—
and underneath, my mother
who is going to die now. Those wild geese
do not pass over any more
within the sky
without limitation
the scattered snow is falling.
Very close to death
the mother I watch beside—
hush-hush—sounds
from far rice ponds, frogs crying
to heaven are being heard. The clouds of springtime
come together at one side
around midday
by the far-off water reeds
the wild geese have settled down.
Being awakened
I was imagining that
the wild grasses
might be dropping down their seeds
at about this time of night. The hush-hush
inside the falling of snow—-
standing motionless,
a horse, his eyes.
Now he has blinked !
Crawling on the grass,
you firefly of the morning,
transient must be
this existence of mine.
Do not let me die, ever. Into spring mountains
I have come and am staying
one person alone
trying to hear the sound o
leaves fallen, dried, bent over.
(Mourning for Akutagawa)
Coming to a wall,
a lacewing May fly
is clinging to it —
the sheer transparency
of the wings, their mournfulness.