At the fringes of the clouds
there still lingered, hesitant,
that person.
We kept silent, learned
to dance a little, as if
opened suddenly.
A body of dance flowed
into our bodies. Our blood
burned.
We studied, and suddenly
couldn’t speak. The heart
hurt.
It started to rain, and we
watched the mountain
through the rain.
When winter came, we
jumped in time until
we couldn’t anymore.
Tears wet the face.
Was it good? We tried
to imagine.
The voice wouldn’t
come, but the crying
did.
What do you mean, someone
said, by happiness?
The reply: ask yourself, and
these were the best words
for our farewell.
***
Today is the birthday of Yasunari Kawabata (1899-1972), a Japanese writer renowned for his pared-down lyricism, and the subtle shading of his prose. In 1968, Kawabata became the first Japanese author to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature. Today’s post is assembled from phrases borrowed from Kawabata’s short story “Morning Clouds,” translated from Japanese by Lane Dunlop.