One Thousand Summers

So the flower has wilted during the long spring rains, just as my beauty has faded during my forlorn years in this world.

Composed on falling snow − Ki no Tsurayuki 紀貫之   Enshrouded in mists trees come into bud, for spring snow falls, flowers scatter even in villages where no flower blooms  yet .

In order for us to find our way home, the plum blossoms still smell the same.

Presently, the boat passed the Uda pine woods. It was impossible to imagine how many trees might be standing there, or how many thousands of years they might have lived. The waves came up to their roots, and cranes flew back and forth among the branches. Too deeply moved to admire the spectacle in silence, one passenger composed a poem that went something like this:

The Naniwazu poem is from the beginning of a reign. [When the Ōsasagi Emperor was a prince in Naniwa, he and the crown prince kept ceding the title and not taking the throne for three years. Because of this, a man named Wani was concerned and respectfully offered a poem. It shall be said that the flowers are plum blossoms.] <...>

The hazy early morning mist over Uji River fades to reveal fishing nets in the shallows. *

The hazy early morning light comes not from the moon but  from the crystal white snow of Yoshino.

I remember one interesting and affecting incident from that reign [of Emperor Murakami]. A plum tree in front of the Seiryōden had died, and His Majesty was looking for a replacement. He entrusted the matter to a certain gentleman who was serving as a Chamberlain at the time. “Young people can't recognize a good tree,” the Chamberlain said to me. “You find one for us.” After walking all over the capital without success, I located a beautiful specimen, covered with deep red blossoms, at a house in the western sector. As I was digging it up, the owner sent someone out with a message. “Attach this to it before you carry it away·“ I supposed there was some reason behind it, so I took the paper along. The Emperor saw it and said, “What's that?” It was a poem in a woman's hand: