Untitled (December 12, 1897)

Turning on my heels, I left the Imperial Palace.
Outside the gates, I leaned against my sword—
             as a last farewell . . .
Now where I am in Higo Province, far beneath
             the precipitous rock faces and cliffs
The self-refreshing Chikugo River pours itself
             into the open sea.
The autumn winds go round at sunset, as
             the straggling
Travelers are swallowed up by the tall grass
             of the plains.
The trials of heaven and earth, as unforgiving
             and mean
As the squalls of wild geese streaking across
             the darkling sky.

Untitled (1899)

My eyes grasp the words of both East and West,
My heart wrapped in the weight of past and present.
Twenty years of shame passed in the shadows
                     of dissipation;
And only now, at thirty, have I begun to right the ship.
In my tranquil sitting room, I ponder the hardships
             of the world.
To empty the mind requires hardness and fluidity—
As birds soar out of sight into the clouds,
As fishes swim through the rivers flowing freely—
The world, at peace with itself from the beginning,
Beneath the white clouds inching freely along
             with glacial ease.

In celebration of spring (March 1898)

No end to the thoughts that cloud the mind as I leave
             through the front gates of my home with
My jacket fluttering at my back in the spring winds.
Ambrosial flowers in bloom beside me in the furrows
             of the plow
By the old road blurring ahead with the rosy sunset
             haze.
Laying my staff down, I look around at the landscape
Of shapes encased in the fading sunlight, and listen
To the songs of the bush warbler, and watch
The flowers whorling on their stems in the tides
             of breeze.
Far beyond the end of my steps, the grasslands roll on
             toward the horizon—
As I scratch an impromptu poem on the splintered
             door of an old temple, my lonesome
Anguish expanding past the presidium of clouds,
A vagrant goose flaps around in search of a new
             home.
Cloistered is the heart of man, with its mercurial
Sense of right and wrong, and good and bad.
Only thirty years old, I am ancient beyond belief,
Loathe to part from this fleeting spring scene—
I float with all things through the flux of the world,
Serene amidst the scents of flowers and plants.