The sake cup stashed away, half the spring has passed.
Beyond haze, string and pipe—whose house is that?
I'm unable to put on shoes, go out to seek the scent.
I watch blossoms open and fall, only in a vase.

In a small room to fall asleep and wake, what a feeling!
The vernal light hangs on, close to the “clean-bright.”
In the wind a single tree, a threadlike willow,
still too svelte to allow a warbler to perch.