Short Poems

Penning his comedy called “Man,” the Master
Who shapes his word in symbol and in trope
Made love a gay enigma of disaster,
And life an epigram on the tomb of hope.

Whither Lord, hast Thou withdrawn, after waking love in me?
Faith, my companion, left me, after kindling the wick of Devotion.

In the sea of separation she felt me, after launching the boat of love.
Mira cries, Lord when wilt Thou greet me? Without Thee I can not live.

The line of ants
seems to start
from the towering clouds.

You may speak
of treasures beyond price.
How can they
match a single cup
of cloudy unfiltered saké?

How pathetic!
Playing the learned sage,
drinking no saké …
but just look at him closely;
doesn't he look like a monkey?

Rather than being
only a mere human,
if only I could
become a saké flask
and be soaked in saké.

What can I say?
I know not what to do
to describe it:
wonderful beyond all else
is that thing they call saké.

Rather than preaching,
and playing the wise man,
it is far better
to drink some saké and
give way to drunken tears.

In ancient times
there were seven wise ones.
What those men too
wanted above all else
seems to have been saké.

Calling saké
by the name “sage”—
how appropriate
the word chosen
by the great ancient sages.