Kyoshi Takahama

• A dead chrysanthemum
• and yet - isn't there still something
• remaining in it?

• He says a word,
• and I say a word - autumn
• is deepening.

• The winds that blows -
• ask them, which leaf on the tree
• will be next to go.

• A gold bug -
• I hurl into the darkness
• and feel the depth of night.

• A white peony
• it is called—but even so,
• a faint redness.

• An autumn sky, and
• under it wild camomile flowers
• with some petals gone.

• With the pine-tree wind
• go scooting and bustling about,
• water spiders.

• Flowing on by,
• the leaves of radishes.
• What swiftness!

• A butterfly's
• noises while eating something—
• such quietness.

• On distant mountains
• the shining of the sun—
• Oh, withered fields!