O master of the fallen blossom, the stars reflected in your Buddha bowl,
Where are your eyes when you beg outside the train station?
With your bruised heart, if we follow your tears we will find them.
They are the eyes of Kannon, hidden under straw from commuters,
They are the soft eyes in the palm of each of her ten thousand hands.
They do not weep only, but shine with sake, light up with women.
Those who do not look at you see only a patch-robed ghost,
Blown by the wind of departing trains, as transparent as a petal
From a plum blossom, trampled on the filthy street. With your bowed head,
You hold your skull in your hands as an offering,
In it rests the violets, the dandelions of this floating world,
Your visions and poems which you offer freely to the air,
Your ocean-deep laugh, thunderous roar, the sword of your silence.
If you are a fool, let us now abandon this search to be wise.