Classic Poem

On nights the wind
mingles with the falling rain,
nights the rain
mingles with the falling snow,
nothing can be done
against the bitter cold,
and so I nibble
a lump of rock salt
and sip the lees
of sake in hot water,
clear my throat,
sniff, sniff back my running nose,
and stroke my whiskers,
barely even a beard,
as I say with pride,
" Aside from me alone,
no man is worthy, " and yet
against the bitter cold
I pull my hempen
quilt tight around me
and pile on
every single cloth vest
that I own, but still
the night is cold as ever.
And what of those
less fortunate than I?
Your father and mother
must be starving in the cold.
Your wife and children
must be crying out " food, food. "
At times like these,
how do you ever manage
to make your way through life?

Heaven and earth
are said to be so vast,
but for me
have they constricted so?
The sun and moon
are said to be so bright,
but for me
do they fail to shine?
Are all men thus,
or is it only so for me?
Lucky to be born
in the world of men, and yet ...
I work and toil
as all men do, and yet ...
my cloth vest,
without even any padding,
dangles off my body
like tattered strands of seaweed,
scraps of cloth
wrapped around my shoulders.
In my crumbling
broken down little hut,
I spread out straw
for bedding on the bare earth.
Father and mother
are there beside my pillow,
wife and children
are there at my feet,
all huddled together
whimpering with grief.
In the stove,
there is no sign of flame.
In the pot,
a spider has spun its web.
We have forgotten even
what it is to cook rice,
and our helpless cries
are weak as the voice of thrushes.
Then, worse yet,
" trimming the ends of a thing
already too short, "
as the saying goes,
there comes the voice
of the headman with his whip,
reaching into my bedroom
to call me out to him.
Is this all?
Is this helplessness all there is
of our path through this life?

Envoy

We may believe
that grief and shame are all
there is of the world,
but because we are not birds
we cannot simply fly away.