Trees In the Town

 

Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (4)

 

Towards the end of April, I temporarily move to Higashiyama for a certain reason. On the way, the nursery beds for rice plants fill with water, and the fields newly planted with rice seedlings look all rather green and charming. In the evening, the mountains look dark and closer. Rails chatter noisily on such lonely evenings.

Do the water rails cackle,

As if knocking at the door to deceive,

Thinking that no one would dare venture

Into the deep mountains at dusk?

As our temporary dwelling is near Reizan-ji Temple, I go there to pray. Fatigued, I drink water from a stone-lined well in the mountain temple, scooping the water with my hand.

Another visitor says, "I could never have enough of this water."

As once Ki Tsurayuki (866–945) composes:

Before I could drink my fill,

The water scooped by my hands

Grew cloudy from a single drop—

Must we, too, part so soon in sorrow?

I decline the visitor's advance:

Do you truly believe

You can drink your fill from this mountain well,

Without causing a single drop

Of troubling cloudiness between us?

He further approaches:

Even if the mountain well

Grows cloudy from a single drop,

I would still choose to stay

And keep drinking from the spring right here.

We come home from the temple in the full brightness of evening sunshine, and enjoy a clear view of Kyoto.

The man who talked about a drop and the cloudy water goes back to Kyoto, sorry for parting from me. In the next morning, he sends a tanka poem:

As the evening sun sinks low

And the eastern mountains fade to dark,

I helplessly gaze back toward the peaks,

Longing for the place where you abide.

I hear the holy voices of the monks reciting sutras in their morning service and I open the door. It is dim early dawn and mist veils the treetops of the dark forest. The forest looks thicker than in the time of flowers or red leaves. It is slightly cloudy this lovely morning. Cuckoos are singing on the nearby trees:

I yearn for someone by my side

To behold this breathtaking dawn

In the quiet mountain village,

And listen to the cuckoo’s echoing call.

At the end of that month, cuckoos sing clamorously on trees towards the glen:

While the one in Kyoto

Anxiously awaits the cuckoo’s first song,

Here the birds sing with careless abandon

From the break of dawn until the dead of night.

One who stays with me says: "Do you have someone in Kyoto who you want to listen to cuckoos with now? Do you have someone who you want to see the mountains with now?" She composes:

Many in the capital may gaze at the moon,

But is there anyone who casts a thought

To these deep, forgotten mountains,

Or remembers us hidden away from the world?

I reply:

I know not how the moon appears

To those who watch it in the capital at night,

But surely the moonlight must shine

Upon this lonely mountain village first of all.

Once, towards dawn, I hear footsteps which sound to be those of many people coming down the mountain. I am frightened and look out. It is a herd of deer which come close to our veranda. They cry out. It is not pleasant to hear them cry nearby:

If only I heard the lonely cry

Of a deer calling for its mate

Upon the distant hills on an autumn night—

How much sweeter that melody would sound.

I hear that a certain man has come near my temporary dwelling and gone back without calling on me. So I make a sarcastic tanka poem:

Even the wind that passes

Through the pine trees on the mountain—

Though it knows me not at all—

At least leaves with a whispering sigh!

August has come, and more than 20 days have passed. The moon shines towards dawn and looks very charming. The mountainside is gloomy, and the waterfall sounds very refined. I see them quietly and calmly:

I wish that lovers of nature could see

The waning moon at dawn in a mountain village

At the very close

Of a melancholy autumn night.

I pack up our temporary dwelling to return to Kyoto. In the rice fields which were covered with water when I came here, rice plants are all harvested:

So long have I remained away from home—

Since the nursed rice seedlings in the beds

Were planted, grew,

And now have all been harvested.

When the end of October is approaching, I visit our old temporary dwelling again. The leaves of thickly grown trees which cast a dark shade in the garden have all fallen. The sight is sorrowful all over. The babbling brook which used to run sweetly is buried under fallen leaves, and I can see only the course of it:

Even the clear water cannot live on

In such lonesome, stormy mountains;

Like the drifted, fallen leaves,

My heart is also scattered and lost.

When I head back to Kyoto, I say to the neighbor nun that I shall come again the next spring if I can live so long, and beg her to send word when the flowering time comes.

The new year comes, and it is past March 19th, but she completely ghosts me, leaving me with radio silence. So I write to her:

No word has come of the blooming cherry blossoms.

Has spring not yet arrived for you,

Or does the perfume of the flowers

Fail to reach your distant home?

I set out with a heavy heart, arriving at a lonely lodging. My new room is beside a bamboo wood. The wind rustles its leaves, and the full moon disturbs my sleep:

Night after night, the bamboo leaves sigh;

My fragile dreams are broken,

And a vague, indefinite sadness

Slowly fills my waking heart.

In Autumn, 1026, I'm forced to move on from that place to stay at yet another location, and send a tanka poem to the previous hostess:

I am like the fleeting dew upon the grass;

It matters little where that dew may fall,

For to my grieving eyes,

Every place alike looks like a wasteland.

My stepmother still calls herself Lady Kazusa, clinging to her status as the former wife of the Governor of Kazusa Province, even though she now has a new husband visiting her home. My father feels compelled to tell her that such pretension is no longer appropriate. Alluding to the famous poem by Emperor Tenji (626–672) about the rustic palace of Asakura, he sends her a reply:

The rustic palace of Asakura is now a cloud-veiled memory,

Yet like a guard blaring his name into the night,

Why do you still loudly proclaim that faded title of yours,

Long after its proper season has passed away?

Worrying about these tedious, rambling family chores is all I do. The few pilgrimages I make fail to turn my mind toward the religious devotion expected of an ordinary person. Many ordinary girls these days start reciting sutras or engaging in serious practices by the age of seventeen or eighteen, but I cannot even imagine doing so. My mind is filled with nothing but fantasies: I yearn for a noble, handsome man like the Shining Prince Genji to visit me, even if only once a year. Like Princess Ukifune, could I be hidden away in some secluded countryside, gazing at blossoms, autumn leaves, the moon, and snow? Could I pass the days waiting for beautifully written love letters, steeped in a world of romantic loneliness and helplessness? That is the only future I envision for myself. I tell myself that if my father could only win a prestigious post, I might also enter into a much nobler lifestyle. Such unreliable, idle hopes occupy my daily thoughts.

At last, my father is barely appointed Governor of Hitachi Province—a post located in the remote East. He does nothing but complain, saying:

“I always thought that if I could secure a governorship near Kyoto, I could finally take care of you to my heart's content. I wanted to bring you along to see the beautiful scenery of the sea and mountains, and I wished for you to live a life of comfort, attended by servants far beyond our current modest status. It seems the karma from past lives is poor—not just mine, but yours as well, which is why we are in this mess. To think that after waiting for so long, I must go to such a distant province! When you were a small child, I took you with me to Kazusa Province. Back then, even a slight illness made me terrified that if I died, you would be left to wander helpless in that remote land. A strange province is full of dangers; I would have traveled with a lighter heart had I been alone. Because I dragged my entire family with me, I could neither speak nor act as I wished, and I always worried that you felt miserable. Now you are grown. If I were to take you to Hitachi, I cannot be certain I would live long enough to bring you back to Kyoto.

“It is difficult enough to be fatherless in the capital, but the most wretched fate of all would be to end up stranded in the eastern provinces as a mere country woman. We have no reliable relatives in Kyoto to look after you, yet I cannot turn down this appointment after such a long wait. Ultimately, you must remain here while I depart for a long, uncertain journey. Oh, how on earth am I to ensure you can live in Kyoto with any shred of decency?”

Night and day, he laments, saying this and that. I can no longer care about flowers or red leaves, grieving sadly, but there is no help for it.

He goes down to his post on July 13th, 1032. For five days before he leaves, he can hardly visit my room, for he finds it too painful to see me in such a panic.

On that day, everything is in a state of utter confusion. When the time for parting comes, I lift the blind and my eyes meet his. My tears drop down. Soon, he leaves. My eyes are dim with tears and I throw myself down on the floor. A servant, who has gone to see him off, returns with a tanka poem written on a piece of paper napkin:

Were I but blessed with higher rank and state,

I should not have to face this cruel fate,

Nor ever know, in autumn of my years,

This sad departure, blinding me with tears.

My tears cloud my eyes, making it hard to read the poem to the end. In happier times, I have often composed halting tanka poems, but I have no idea what to say in such grief:

Never, in all my thoughts, did I foresee

A time when we would thus divided be;

To part from you, my father, in this world,

Leaves my young heart into the darkness hurled.

Without my father, few people visit our home. I am very lonely and forlorn, musing and guessing where he might be at every moment. As I know the route he is taking, I find myself missing him so deeply and feeling so utterly helpless. To think I used to take my father’s presence for granted—now, from morning until evening, I stay looking towards the skyline of the eastern mountains.

Trees In the Town

 

Virtual Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #5 Kannon-ji Temple

 

     The exact founding date of Kannon-ji Temple—the 5th station of the Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage in Arai Village, Harima Province—remains obscure. Interestingly, Kannon-ji Temple is located in close proximity to Risho-ji Temple—the 4th station of the Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage—, and both belong to the same Buddhist sect, the Pure Land Buddhism. This unusual clustering raises questions regarding how they divided their respective "service areas" or parishioner bases.

     A crucial clue lies within the temple precincts. According to the historical record of the Gorinto (Five-Ring Pagoda), the eminent priest Shunjobo Chogen (1121–1206) visited Arai Village between 1204 and 1206. Striking the ground with his staff and bowing in reverence, he decreed that a temple be erected on that very spot. Today, this site is marked by the Gorinto, widely revered as the Memorial Pagoda of Priest Chogen.

     Appointed as the Chief Solicitor (Daikanjin) for the reconstruction of Todai-ji Temple in 1181, Chogen dedicated the remainder of his life to restoring the Great Buddha, its main hall, the Great South Gate, and other structures. It is highly probable that his visit to Arai Village was part of these fundraising and resource-gathering efforts. Furthermore, given Chogen’s well-known dedication to public works—following the tradition of Priest Gyoki (668–749)—it is reasonable to infer that Kannon-ji Temple initially functioned as a strategic local office or logistics hub for his grand enterprise. Although Chogen belonged to the Huayan School of Buddhism, Kannon-ji Temple was likely transferred to Pure Land Buddhism in later years as the sect gained widespread popularity in the region.

Address: 5-8 Araicho Nakamachi, Takasago, Hyogo 676-0007

Phone: 079-443-3722

Trees In the Town

 

Virtual Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #4 Risho-ji Temple

 

     It remains unknown exactly when Risho-ji Temple was founded in Arai Village (Kako County, Harima Province). However, the temple houses a wooden standing statue of Amida Nyorai (Amitabha), which is estimated to have been carved during the Kamakura Period (1185–1333).

     To understand the historical context of the area, local traditions hold that people from Izumo Province migrated via the Seto Inland Sea and settled in Arai in 629, founding Arai Shrine. Later, during the Heian Period (794–1185), the Arai area became part of Takasago Mikuriya—a type of estate dedicated to supplying fish and other seafood to the Imperial Court, major shrines, and aristocratic families. Within this estate, Hachiman Shrine was established as a private sanctuary for the local lord, while also serving as a branch of Arai Shrine. Centuries later, between 1441 and 1444, a warrior named Sugioka Yasushige is said to have built the fortified residence of Arai on the site where Hachiman Shrine stands today. Arai Village first appears in historical records in a letter by Uragami Norimune (1429–1502), which indicates that the village was under the rule of the Kajiwara family at the time.

     Given this historical background, if Risho-ji Temple was founded as a Pure Land Buddhist temple from its very inception, its establishment must postdate the late 12th century, when Pure Land teachings flourished across Japan. Therefore, it is highly plausible that the foundation of the temple and the creation of its principal image occurred simultaneously during the Kamakura Period (1185-1333), reflecting the growth of Buddhist devotion in this flourishing coastal community.

Address: 1 Chome-9-11 Araicho Otabi, Takasago, Hyogo 676-0005

Hachiman Shrine

Address: 1 Chome-10-7 Araicho Otabi, Takasago, Hyogo 676-0005

Trees In the Town

 

Virtual Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #3 Jurin-ji Temple

 

     According to tradition, after Kukai (774–835) returned from Tang China, he founded a Shingon Buddhist temple in 815 by Imperial decree as a prayer center for national protection. He named it Jizo-san Jurin-ji, drawing from the "Jizo Jurin Sutra" (The Ten Wheels of Ksitigarbha Sutra). This sutra expounds that Jizo Bodhisattva saves suffering sentient beings through ten divine wheels (or powers), which became the spiritual foundation of the temple.

     However, in 1207, Honen (1133–1212) spread his Pure Land teachings to Harima Province. His disciple, the monk Shin’jaku (?–1244), later revived the temple as a Jodo (Pure Land) Buddhist temple. The temple's sango (mountain name) was subsequently changed to Hobin-san ("Treasure Vase Mountain") after it received a donation of a hanging scroll titled "The Image of the Treasure Vase," which featured a self-inscription by Honen.

     While Jurin-ji is believed to have suffered severe damage during the turbulent Onin War (1467–1477) and the subsequent Warring States Period (1467-1568), it found a powerful patron in the early Edo Period (1603–1867) in Itakura Katsushige (1545–1624). Serving as the Kyoto Shoshidai (the Shogunate's Governor of Kyoto), Katsushige donated land to the temple, ensuring its revival and securing its place as a revered sacred site.

Address: 1074 Takasagocho Yokomachi, Takasago, Hyogo 676-0051

Phone: 079-442-0242

Trees In the Town

 

Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (3)

 

Our garden is very wide and wild with great, fearful trees not inferior to those in the mountains I have traveled over. The garden does not seem to be one in the city. I cannot feel at home, or keep a settled mind. Even so, I tease my mother into giving me books of stories and tales after which I have been yearning for so many years. Mother sends a messenger with a letter to Emon Myobu (dates unknown, active 11th century), one of our relatives who serves Princess Nagako. She takes interest in my strange passion and willingly sends me some excellent manuscripts in the lid of a writing-box, saying that these copies have been given to her by the Princess. My joy knows no bounds and I read them day and night. I soon begin to wish for more, but, as I am an utter stranger to Kyoto, who will get them for me?

My stepmother used to be a waiting-lady at the Imperial Court, but she chose to go to Kazusa Province with my father. She seems to have something disappointing in life with him. She regrets her marriage, and now she is to leave our home. She takes her own child, who is five years old, and her own servants. She says to me, "The time will never come when I shall forget your sympathetic heart." Pointing to a huge plum tree which grows close to an eave, she says, "When it is in flower, I shall come back," and she leaves. I feel love and pity for her in my mind. As I secretly weep, the year, too, goes by.

"When the plum tree blooms I shall come back," promised she. I ponder over these words and wonder whether she will come. I wait and wait, keeping an eye on the tree. It is all in flower, and yet no tidings from her. I become very anxious and, at last, snap a branch and send it to her with my tanka poem:

Should I still wait, as you once bid me do

And sware on the plum tree?

The plum was withered by the bitter frost,

But has not been left forgotten by the spring.

She writes back affectionate words with a tanka poem:

Still keep your faith and wait for me, my dear;

For people say the high-grown blossom's scent

Will draw a guest unpromised to your door—

An unexpected visitor may come.

During the spring of 1022, the world is troubled by a spreading epidemic. My wet nurse, who filled my heart with pity on that moonlight night at Matsusato Ferry, dies on March 1st. I lament hopelessly, and even forget my passion for romances.

I pass day after day weeping bitterly. When I look out of the window, the evening sun shines brilliantly, and the cherry blossoms have all fallen and scattered.

The cherry blossoms fall,

Yet they will return next spring;

But my beloved nurse,

Gone forever, leaves me in longing.

I hear that one of the daughters of Fujiwara Yukinari (972–1028), a woman married to Fujiwara Nagaie (1005–1064), also passes away. I sympathize deeply with the sorrow of her husband, feeling it as my own.

I take out the examples of her beautiful handwriting given to me when I first arrived in Kyoto to practice my calligraphy. Written within are several poems:

Had I not awakened

Deep in the quiet of night,

I would have heard only from others

The song of the summer cuckoo.

That tanka poem is composed by Mibu Tadami. As I read the other poems, I find this anonymous tanka indescribably ominous:

When you see the smoke

Rising from Toribeyama’s pyre,

Look closely at the shifting sky—

For I shall be gone like a fleeting breath.

The more I gaze upon her beautiful handwriting, the more my tears flow.

I brood so much that my real mother, Fujiwara Chishi (?-1024), troubles herself to console me. She searches for romances and gives them to me, and I become consoled unconsciously. I read a few volumes about Murasaki no Ue in The Tale of Genji and long for the rest, but as I cannot be sociable and my family is still a stranger in Kyoto, I have no way of finding them. I am all impatient and yearning, and in my mind, I am always praying, “Let me read all the volumes of The Tale of Genji from the very first one.”

When my parents and I shut ourselves up in Koryu-ji Temple in Uzumasa, all I pray for is nothing but The Tale of Genji. I think I can read them all as soon as I leave the temple, but I cannot. I am bitterly frustrated and inconsolable. One day, I visit my aunt, the daughter of Fujiwara Michitaka (953–995), who has recently come up from the country. She says lovingly and amazedly, “You have grown up beautifully.” On my return, she says: "What shall I give you? Something practical will not do. I will give you what you like best." And she gives me The Tale of Genji, more than 50 volumes of it, in a case, as well as The Tale of Ise, Tohogimi, Serikawa, Shirara, and Asauzu. How happy I am when I come home carrying these books in a bag! Until then, I have only read The Tale of Genji partially, and am dissatisfied because I cannot understand the whole story.

Now, I can be absorbed in these stories, taking them out one by one, shutting myself in my room. To be an Empress will be nothing compared to this!

All day and all night, as late as I can keep my eyes open, I do nothing but read the books, setting a lamp close beside me.

Soon I learn by heart all the names in the books, and I think that is a great thing.

Once, I dream of a holy priest in a yellow Buddhist sash who comes to me and says, "Learn the 5th volume of the Lotus Sutra at once." The volume contains Chapter 12: “Devadatta,” in which Buddha teaches that women can become enlightened.

I do not tell anyone about the dream, and I have no intention of doing so. I continue to bathe in the romances. I think to myself, although I am still ugly and undeveloped, the time will come when I shall be very beautiful, with long, long hair. I should be, like Lady Yugao in The Tale of Genji, loved by the Shining Prince Minamoto no Genji, or, like Lady Ukifune, be a tragic heroine.

How unreliable, how foolish my mind is—indulging in such empty fancies.

Around the first day of the fifth month, the white petals of the tachibana orange tree near the edge of the eaves cover the ground:

If the fragrance of the tachibana blossoms did not rise,

I would surely believe

That a fresh blanket of snow

Had fallen out of season.

In the garden, trees grow as thick as in the deep forest of Ashigara, and, in the tenth month, its autumn foliage is more beautiful than that of the surrounding mountains. A visitor remarks, "On my way here, I passed a place where the red leaves were exceptionally beautiful." I improvise a response:

Nowhere can be more steeped in autumn

Than this secluded dwelling of mine,

Where resides an autumnal person

Who grows weary of this fleeting world.

I still live in the world of romances from morning to night, and for as long as I am awake.

I see another dream: a man says that he is to make a brook in the garden of the Rokkaku-do Hall to entertain Princess Teishi (1013–1094). I ask the reason, and the man replies, "Pray to the Sun Goddess Amaterasu." And yet, I don't tell anyone about the dream or even think of it again. Seriously, how shallow can I be!

Every spring, I enjoy the garden of my next-door neighbor, Imperial Princess Nagako (1029–1077):

Anxiously waiting for the cherry blossoms to bloom,

Grievously lamenting as they begin to fall,

Year after year, I gaze upon the flowers in her garden

As though they were purely my own.

Around March 30th, 1023, I move to a certain person's house to avoid the evil influence of the earth god. There, I see delightful cherry blossoms still on the tree, and the day after my return, I send this poem:

Without tiring, I gazed at the blossoms at home,

Yet as Spring closed and they began to fade,

By chance, I found them blooming there in your garden,

And my heart is drawn to their lingering shade.

Whenever the flowers come and go, I can think of nothing but those days when my wet nurse died. Her death alone is sad enough, but my sadness grows deeper when I study the handwriting of the noble daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028). It is in May, as far as I can tell, that I am up late reading a romance, and I hear a cat out of nowhere meowing with a long-drawn-out, melting cry. I turn, wondering, and see a most exquisite, adorable cat—oh, look at those perfect little paws! "Where does it come from?" I ask. "Sh," says my sister, "do not tell anybody. It is an absolute darling of a cat, and we will keep it all to ourselves."

The cat takes to us, comes to us, and lies beside us. Someone might be looking for her, so we keep her secretly. She keeps herself aloof from the vulgar servants, always sitting quietly right before us. She turns her face away from unclean food, never eating a single bite. She clings to us and is cherished by us with utmost love.

Once my sister is ill, and our family is rather upset. The cat is kept around the servants' rooms and is never called. She cries loudly and scoldingly, yet I think it better to keep her away. My sister, suddenly awakening, says to me, "Where is the cat kept? Bring her here." I ask why, and my sister answers, "In my dream, the cat comes to my side and says, 'I am the altered form of the late noble daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari. We have a slight fate. Your sister has been thinking of me affectionately, so I am here for a while, but now I am among the servants. O, how dreary I am!' So saying, she weeps bitterly. She appears to be a noble and beautiful person, and then I awake to hear the cat crying! How pitiful!"

The story moves me deeply, and after this, I never send the cat away to the servants’ rooms, but wait on her lovingly. Once, when I am am sitting alone, she comes and sits before me, and I, stroking her head, address her, "You are the daughter of Lord Yukinari? I wish to let your father know of it." The cat watches my face and mews, lengthening her voice. Maybe it’s just me, but she doesn’t look like a common cat at all—those elegant paws and manners are far too noble. She seems to understand my words, and that makes her even more heart-meltingly adorable.

I hear that there’s supposedly this translation, or like, a lighter rewritten version of Chang Hen Ge (The Song of Everlasting Regret) floating around. I long to borrow it, but I’m too self-conscious to just come out and say so.

On July 7th, I find a connection and send my words:

Upon this day of the Star Festival's grace,

Hoping to glimpse that fabled, wondrous lore,

I row my boat into the Heavenly River,

To seek the book I long for more and more.

The answer is:

Allured by the sweet music of your verse,

I stand along the Milky Way so bright,

Forgetting all the rules of common sense,

To guide your vessel through the starry night.

On the thirteenth night of the month, the moon shines with immense brilliance, chasing away the darkness from every corner of the world. Around midnight, while everyone else is asleep, my sister and I sit together on the veranda. Gazing thoughtfully into the sky, my sister suddenly says, "If I were to fly away right now, with no destination in mind, what would you think?" Seeing that her words shock me, she masterfully talks her way out of it and offers me a gentle smile.

Then, the sound of a carriage accompanied by a runner stops near our house. A high-ranking gentleman in the carriage calls out, "Ogi-no-ha! Ogi-no-ha!" twice, but no woman named after the reed leaves offers a reply. The gentleman cries out in vain until he grows weary. He plays his flute with clear and exquisite beauty, and at last, drives away. Intrigued by this, I compose:

The melody of the flute

Echoes like the autumn wind;

Why does the reed leaf make no reply

When the grass is in her prime?

My sister replies to me:

The notes of the flute

Blow chillingly like the autumn wind;

It leaves without waiting

For the reply of the reed leaf.

We sit side by side, looking up into the vast firmament, and only retire to bed after daybreak.

At midnight in the fourth month of 1024, a fire broke out, and the cat, which we had treated with the same devotion as the noble daughter of Yukinari Fujiwara, was burned to death. The cat used to come mewing whenever I called out, "Princess," as if she completely understood my words. My father remarked that he would relate this matter to Yukinari, as it was such a strange and deeply moving story. I feel an overwhelming, endless sorrow for her.

Our old garden is spacious and remains as wild as the deep mountains. In the seasons of blossoms and crimson leaves, its beauty is never inferior to that of the surrounding peaks. Our new temporary shelter, however, is far narrower than our former home. As I am still deeply attached to the old place, I feel a profound sadness, for here we have only a tiny garden with no trees at all. In the house opposite ours, white and red plum blossoms cover the grounds. Their fragrance drifts upon the wind, filling my heart with longing for our old home:

The fragrance from the neighbor’s garden

Gently touches my sorrowful heart,

Bringing back memories of the plum trees

Blooming under the eaves of my old home.

On the first day of the fifth month, my sister died after giving birth to a child. From my childhood, even the deaths of strangers touch my heart deeply. Compared to the deaths of strangers, the sorrow of my sister’s death is beyond description. I lament, filled with speechless pity and sorrow.

While our mother and others are with the deceased, I lie with the memory-awakening child and baby on either side of me. The moonlight finds its way through the cracks in the roof of our temporary dwelling and illuminates the face of the baby. The sight gives my heart so deep a pang that I cover the baby’s face with my sleeve and draw the other child closer to my side. Thinking of their mother, I sorrow terribly.

After the memorial service on the forty-ninth day, one of my relatives sends me a romance entitled The Prince Yearning after the Corpse, with the following note: "Your late sister asked me to find her this romance. I looked for the story but couldn’t find it at that time. Now, to add to my sorrow, someone has just sent it to me."

I answer:

How strange that she yearned for this tale,

A story of a prince seeking his dead love;

Now my sister herself lies deep

Beneath the green and silent moss.

My sister's wet nurse says that, since she has lost her, she has no reason to stay. She goes back to her own home, weeping.

I write to her:

Thus you return to your old home,

Leaving me behind in my despair;

The only thing that separates us now

Is the cruel death that took her away.

"For remembrance of her, I would like you to stay here. The water in the inkstone seems to freeze up, and I cannot write any more," I add, sending another poem:

How can I keep her memory alive

When the winter cold freezes the inkstone,

And I can no longer find the words

To write of my beloved sister?

So I write, and the wet nurse answers:

Like a lonely plover flying away,

Leaving no footprints upon the shore,

I fade into the background now,

My bond of milk broken forever.

As the deceased was cremated in the open air, the wet nurse visits her cremation site and returns sobbing. I wonder:

She has risen as smoke into the sky;

Without that fading trail to guide her,

How did the weeping wet nurse find

The lonely ground where she burned?

My stepmother hears of this and composes:

She must have wandered here and there,

Searching blindly through the fields;

In the end, it was her own falling tears

That showed her where the ashes lay.

The person who sent The Prince Yearning after the Corpse composes:

She must have wandered, seeking in vain,

Through the unfamiliar, rustling bamboo plains,

Weeping and weeping without end,

Lost in her boundless sorrow.

Reading these poems, my brother, who escorted the dead that night, composes a poem:

I watched her burn until the smoke died away;

How then did the nurse trace her steps

Through the mournful bamboo fields

To find the place of funeral fire?

It has been snowing heavily for many days, and I think of my wet nurse who lives on Mount Yoshino as a nun. I write to her:

Deep snow blankets the peaks,

No traveler treads the mountain track;

To your secluded cell in Yoshino,

No visitor will find a way today.

Sei Shonagon (966-1017) once writes, "Most depressing is the household of some hopeful candidate who fails to receive a post during the period of official appointments."

The following year, in the first month, when the appointments of provincial governors are announced, my father stays up through the night, looking forward to his post, only to face disappointment in the morning. A person who shares our anxiety writes to me, "I anxiously waited for the happy news until dawn:"

Waiting solely for the dawn

To bring the joyful news of success,

The night stretched endlessly on—

A hundred times longer than a long autumn night.

I write back:

Why did we fix our hopes

Upon the breaking of the dawn?

The morning temple bell tolls only

To break the illusions of our hearts.