Classic Poem

My father and my uncle
once accompanied my grandfather —
so often I've heard of that youthful expedition,
how they bought wine, drank in a tower by the lake;
their old friend Hirai Kiso
served as host along the eastern road.
Now my father, my grandfather, and my father's friend
all are logged in the ledgers of the dead;
only my uncle is still with me
as we set out to retrace that former outing.
I live now by the Kyoto bridge,
take his hand carefully, help him along.
At the stone landing we rent a little boat,
riding together, listening to the gentle oars.
He points out spots of that earlier trip,
some forty-five years ago:
" Weather was clear, the lake calm,
not like the rain we've run into today.
From the lake we could see the mountains
ranged peak by peak, all plainly in view! "
The dead will never see them again,
and the living — how often will we be together?
Uncle and nephew have a chance to tip the cup;
where shall we buy our presents for those at home?
I'm learning to wash away my cares with wine,
dancing a crazy dance to delight the elders.
Still I can't help worrying about my boy,
troubled in mind by the sickness that racks him.
But why speak of wife and family —
my uncle is the guest of honor today.
I've written this poem to mark the occasion,
a footnote to add to the family records.