Seishu Hamano: Recent Romantic Tanka

Seishu Hamano: Recent Romantic Tanka (Reiwa Three to Five)

When time passes, even a hundred years, how can I bear to see parents and brothers pass away?

Without crossing the water to fetch water, spring will not come, as my mother said. Thinking of her winter home, how many years have passed?

Spring is sad, and the teacher passed away. The shadow of time has passed, and the day of cherry blossom snow is now distant.

This world fades away, and the cherry blossoms have gone. Even if spring does not come, I will tie the fruit of the cherry blossom.

Living in the village of the parents, their shadows are far away. Now, returning home, the sound of cicadas falls upon me.

The day of leaving the residence of Kinugasa is near. The sorrow of the ten-year-old's lament is now a dream.

The words wrapped in lips and teeth, the leaves of speech, dance in the autumn wind. I tell them with my eyes.

The world is old, and the arms that wither are weak. With a weak hand, I close the gate, and the thunder and lightning fall silently in my thoughts.

The shadow of the parents and grandparents is frightening. As a young person, where shall I go tonight? My eyes ask.

Returning to my old home, I think of the repeated words. In the whirlpool of the times, I float and sink.

The drums of the old home's summer festival are sad. All who walk the path have changed.

Recall the good old days, the words of the departed, the taxes, the confusion. Even the old people have gone this way.

The strong woman of the North Road recalls the flow of plum blossoms in Kamakura's spring.

Returning to the time of my mother,

The news of the fragrance is painful, as if wrapped in the world. I beg for the branch of the blooming plum, still in bud.

Your hermitage is only a temporary lodging. The voice of heaven says, but the quilt is soft and warm.

The parents' clothes and sashes, standing by the riverbank where fireflies glow, have gone to where?

The person who writes, the sun sets, and the body is blamed. The sun tilts and falls, and the sound of the cicadas falls.

A hundred years ago, a poet was born. Today, even a friend's decline is mourned in the summer day.

On the day of the operation that cuts the intestines, I greedily eat the blue mandarin oranges.

The parents and grandparents pray for the thousand-year life. Even now, I blame my own body and fall ill.

I cut off the New Year's greeting, and the friend, how beautiful the blooming flowers are.

The day of the afterlife is today or tomorrow, and spring becomes the daughter's celebration. For a while, news stops.

Speaking of the thoughts of the children who do not know the past world, it is empty.

The cheers of the American ball game make the old battlefield of the samurai seem far away.

Putting the ticket in the wallet, the academic record is confused. The yellow sand in the sky is artificial, and the young leaves are born.

A single cherry blossom blooms, and a single one falls. Drenched in the ground of May, they fall together.

The words of the friend, waiting for the month of leaves, the sake is delicious. The one who dies alone is said to have the words reach.

Receiving the mosquitoes of the tropics, and the sweat of the extreme cold, the soldiers' dreams turn.

Violon violon, the love of the young days, where have you gone? I step down at the station.

Today, too, the soul is said to be gone. The friend's voice, the frost withers, and the cold night is silent.