Deep in a forest where it rains
cuckoos cry.
Beyond pale darkness
their echoes respond.

Elegant-looking tips of the trees
are hearing the silent fog that is coming down,
that fog turning into drops of water on twigs
and softly dripping down.

On the path that continues into the fog
I stop walking and listen
to voices of lonely cuckoos.

Droplets of water make a separating curtain,
and from an eternal end is heard
that monotonous repetition.

I look back at the lengthy time
of my short life,
estrangements of affection and
a period of many betrayals.

Beloved persons who have departed too,
scattered-away friends too,
all of them have gone inside this fog
and perhaps exist somewhere in the end of the fog.

Now already there is no way to search.
From end to end
the enveloping fog thickens and thickens.
All the loneliness for what cannot be regained
is swept along very quickly.

Here and there in the ocean of fog
like spirit and spirit that call to each other
cuckoos are crying,
cuckoos are crying.

- Mitsuharu Kaneko

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