Monday, April 8, 2013

Poem by Atsuhiro Sawai

Early Spring

If I make an attempt to walk with each and every thing
   thrown off
the air with the mischievous smile of a devil
attempts to present all things to me
so that my being will be bewitched by any one of them.

I throw them away
and then I begin to walk all over again.
And the world is in early spring.
Under the girdered expressway a milk-colored haze is
the sunlight of morning shining into it aslant.

Where a powdering of frost halfway comes off the tops
   of roofs
children of sunlight blow upon tiny horns of spring.
Heads of grey-green colored hills and
heads of building of this side stretch up billowingly.

Looking out on this scene of such joyful existence
now I will stop questioning the condition of "happiness."

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