Kenkichi Nakamura

Under the plane trees  young women are passing by,  upon their eyelids  is a color tinged with blood.  Summer has surely arrived.	My eyes watching,  I too become desolate  toward nightfall  from the harvested rice field  seeing stray grains being gathered.
On a mountain top  in springtime coldness  priests keep going back and forth  in black robes that are bulging  and mufflers that are white.