Classic Poem

The fable at the end of April is linear.
On the peninsula the bronze wheat and aloe-green rape
were rusted like the Gentle Woman's robe.
One thinks; therefore, existence ceases to be.
Man's existence is after death.
When one ceases to be human one merges
with greatest existence. For the moment
I don't want to talk a lot.
With the people in the poppy house
with the people studying metaphysical mythology
I take a hot bath in Ochiai where mustard grows.
I think secretly of Andromeda.
In the house over there the Gentle Woman, lying on her side
plays go with a woman, her friend.
She ponders, her hand stuck out of the front of her robe.
We philosophers gathered before the broken waterwheel
and holding azalea and sweet flag in our hands
had a photo taken, had another hot bath
served ourselves an arrow-head liquor
and indulged all night in geometrical thoughts.
I think of a friend of the days
when we talked about Beddoes' suicide theory
as we climbed Dogenzaka, and also thinking
about the white-haired Einstein walking
in an American village, I cannot sleep.
I run along the Nekko River alone.
Early in the morning I walk the white road to the inn at Seko.
A damson tree with white blossoms stands
crooked on the roadside. I turn toward a bush warbler's
song and see the blossoms of mountain cherries already fallen.
The pale violets clinging to the rocks; cattails
drooped in great masses in the mist;
my hair has turned badger gray.
All of a sudden an Ophelian thought—
wild strawberry, vetch, buttercups, wild roses,
violets I picked.
I hold this full bouquet together with a pencil in my hand
for the Gentle Woman, for the never-ending love,
for the curses of Pascal's and Rilke's women
and for this water spirit.