A pattern of wave ripples, woven—it seems—
On a loom of green willows reflected in the stream.
They wait several days at Yamazaki for carriages to arrive from Kyoto. Kyoto is reached late at night, on the sixteenth day of the second moon.
Sixteenth day: As we reached the house and passed through the gate, everything stood out brightly under the clear moon. Things were even worse than we had heard—there was a wilderness of decay and dilapidation. The heart of the neighbor to whose care we entrusted the house has proved a wilderness, too. Seeing that his house and ours were like one, divided only by a fence, we left everything to his care with good hopes. Whenever we sent him news or instructions, we sent small presents as well. However, tonight we have no intention of showing any displeasure. Wretched though the place looks, we shall thank him for his trouble.
In a marshy spot in the garden we had excavated a pit, forming a pond, around which stood a grove of pine trees. It looks as if, in five or six years, a thousand years have left their mark here—one bank of the pond has collapsed, new trees have sprung up among the old, and such is the general air of neglect that all who look are afflicted with a sense of sadness. Old memories come flooding back, and the saddest of all are those of the child who was born in this house and who has not returned. To see others from the ship surrounded by excited, happy children, only makes our grief more difficult to bear. One who shares our inmost thoughts composed this poem:
When one, whose home is here, has not returned,
How sad to see these new young pines!
Still unconsoled, perhaps, he wrote another:
The one I knew—if only she had been an ageless pine!
What need then of these grievous farewells?
There are many things which we cannot forget, and which give us pain, but I cannot write them all down. Whatever they may be, let us say no more.
