Was out of Kyoto avoiding the street fighting and burning flares, went over to Matsumoto to thrash around the castle at the carp, so innocent looking in the moat yet at heart, as mean as megalithic whales, and was attracted to a Young Thing in her late 20s, at the latest, whom luck favored to draw us together for a nonce, until I noticed her undercovering colors, which make me flee for my life to the safety of the zoo.
her face, so pretty
her hands, nicely soft.
her legs, just right,
Hopping the nearest Jin-riki-sha, I returned to the country we all love and know best, Kyoto, and discovered that Mt Ogura needed some revision in our thinking. We all know and love Mt Ogura, and some of us (but not me) have spent time cleaning up the trash there. I found out in my investigation that Old Ogura has always been a collector of castaway and useless objects, now as back then.
Ogura, hill of abandonment;
before, minds and hearts,
now, just garbage
Long ago, the rejected priests, poets and princes made their abodes there, huts, hideaways, hermitages all over the place. The poems they wrote make one weep just as they wept.
“Hearing a stag calling, I look into my heart, living alone at the foot of Mr Ogura.” Priest Saigyo
“Even living in a hermitage on Mr Ogura, not a single day passes without my crying about this world along with the deer.” Takakura
On Mt Ogura, morning after morning a drizzling rain; yesterday maple leaves all around were tinged in faint colors.” Teika
“So desolate is this wintry mountain village, autumn remains only in the sound of a stag.” Prince Kakusho
cleaning up Mt Ogura,
first, junk and garbage,
but next, minds and hearts?