SOTOBA KOMACHI

A PRIEST OF THE KŌYASAN.
SECOND PRIEST.
ONO NO KOMACHI.
CHORUS.

We who on shallow hills 1 have built our home
In the heart's deep recess seek solitude.

The Buddha of the Past is gone,
And he that shall be Buddha has not yet come into the world.

In a dream-lull our lives are passed; all, all
That round us lies
Is visionary, void.
Yet got we by rare fortune at our birth
Man's shape, that is hard to get;
And dearer gift was given us, harder to win,
The doctrine of Buddha, seed of our Salvation.
And me this only thought possessed,
How I might bring that seed to blossom, till at last
I drew this sombre cassock across my back.
And knowing now the lives before my birth,
No love I owe
To those that to this life engendered me,
Nor seek a care (have I not disavowed
Such hollow bonds?) from child by me begot.
A thousand leagues
Is little road p. 115
To the pilgrim's feet.
The fields his bed,
The hills his home
Till the travel's close.

We have come so fast that we have reached the pine-woods of Abeno, in the country of Tsu. Let us rest in this place.

Like a root-cut reed, 1
Should the tide entice,
I would come, I think; but now
No wave asks; no stream stirs.
Long ago I was full of pride;
Crowned with nodding tresses, halcyon locks,
I walked like a young willow delicately wafted
By the winds of Spring.
I spoke with the voice of a nightingale that has sipped the dew.
I was lovelier than the petals of the wild-rose open-stretched
In the hour before its fall.
But now I am grown loathsome even to sluts,
Poor girls of the people, and they and all men
Turn scornful from me.
Unhappy months and days pile up their score;
I am old; old by a hundred years.
In the City I fear men's eyes,
And at dusk, lest they should cry "Is it she?"
Westward with the moon I creep
From the cloud-high City of the Hundred Towers.
No guard will question, none challenge
Pilgrim so wretched: yet must I he walking
Hid ever in shadow of the trees.
Past the Lovers' Tomb,
And the Hill of Autumn
To the River of Katsura, the boats, the moonlight.

Who are those rowing in the boats? 1
Oh, I am weary. I will sit on this tree-stump and rest awhile.

Come! The sun is sinking; we must hasten on our way. Look, look at that beggar there! It is a holy Stūpa that she is sitting on! I must tell her to come off it.

Now then, what is that you are sitting on? Is it not a holy Stūpa, the worshipful Body of Buddha? Come off it and rest in some other place.

Buddha's worshipful body, you say? But I could see no writing on it, nor any figure carved. I thought it was only a tree-stump.

Even the little black tree on the hillside
When it has put its blossoms on
Cannot be hid;
And think you that this tree
Cut fivefold in the fashion of Buddha's holy form
Shall not make manifest its power?

I too am a poor withered bough.
But there are flowers at my heart, 2
Good enough, maybe, for an offering.
But why is this called Buddha's body?

Hear then! This Stūpa is the Body of the Diamond Lord. 3 It is the symbol of his incarnation.

And in what elements did he choose to manifest his body?

Earth, water, wind, fire and space.

Of these five man also is compounded. Where then is the difference?

The forms are the same, but not the virtue.

And what is the virtue of the Stūpa?

"He that has looked once upon the Stūpa, shall escape forever from the Three Paths of Evil." 1

"One thought can sow salvation in the heart." 2 Is that of less price?

If your heart has seen salvation, how comes it that you linger in the World?

It is my body that lingers, for my heart left it long ago.

You have no heart at all, or you would have known the Body of Buddha.

It was because I knew it that I came to see it!

And knowing what you know, you sprawled upon it without a word of prayer?

It was on the ground already. What harm could it get by my resting on it?

It was an act of discord. 1

Sometimes from discord salvation springs.

From the malice of Daiba ... 2

As from the mercy of Kwannon. 3

From the folly of Handoku ...  4

As from the wisdom of Monju. 5

That which is called Evil

Is Good.

That which is called Illusion

Is Salvation. 6

For Salvation

Cannot be planted like a tree.

And the Heart's Mirror

Hangs in the void.

"Nothing is real.
Between Buddha and Man
Is no distinction, but a seeming of difference planned
For the welfare of the humble , the ill-instructed,
Whom he has vowed to save.
Sin itself may be the ladder of salvation."
So she spoke, eagerly; and the priests,
"A saint, a saint is this decrepit, outcast soul."
And bending their heads to the ground,
Three times did homage before her.

I now emboldened
Recite a riddle, a jesting song.
"Were I in Heaven
The Stūpa were an ill seat;
But here, in the world without,
What harm is done?" 1

The priests would have rebuked her;
But they have found their match.

Who are you? Pray tell us the name you had, and we will pray
for you when you are dead.

Shame covers me when I speak my name; but if you will pray for p. 120 me, I will try to tell you. This is my name; write it down in your prayer-list: I am the ruins of Komachi, daughter of Ono no Yoshizane, Governor of the land of Dewa.

Oh piteous, piteous! Is this
Komachi that once
Was a bright flower,
Komachi the beautiful, whose dark brows
Linked like young moons;
Her face white-farded ever;
Whose many, many damask robes
Filled cedar-scented halls?

I made verses in our speech
And in the speech of the foreign Court.

The cup she held at the feast
Like gentle moonlight dropped its glint on her sleeve.
Oh how fell she from splendour,
How came the white of winter
To crown her head?
Where are gone the lovely locks, double-twined,
The coils of jet?
Lank wisps, scant curls wither now
On wilted flesh;
And twin-arches, moth-brows tinge no more
With the hue of far hills. "Oh cover, cover
From the creeping light of dawn
Silted seaweed locks that of a hundred years
Lack now but one.
Oh hide me from my shame."

What is it you carry in the wallet string at your neck?

Death may come to-day--or hunger to-morrow. p. 121
A few beans and a cake of millet:
That is what I carry in my bag.

And in the wallet on your back?

A garment stained with dust and sweat.

And in the basket on your arm?

Sagittaries white and black.

Tattered cloak, 1

Broken hat . . .

She cannot hide her face from our eyes;
And how her limbs

From rain and dew, hoar-frost and snow?

Not rags enough to wipe the tears from my eyes!
Now, wandering along the roads
I beg an alms of those that pass.
And when they will not give,
An evil rage, a very madness possesses me.
My voice changes.
Oh terrible!

Grr! You priests, give me something: give me something ... Ah!

What do you want?

Let me go to Komachi. 1

But you told us you were Komachi. What folly is this you are talking?

No, no.... Komachi was very beautiful.
Many letters came to her, many messages,--
Thick as raindrops out of a black summer sky.
But she sent no answer, not even an empty word.
And now in punishment she has grown old:
She has lived a hundred years--
I love her, oh I love her!

You love Komachi? Say then, whose spirit has possessed you?

There were many who set their hearts on her,
But among them all
It was Shōshō who loved her best,
Shii no Shōshō of the Deep Grass. 2

The wheel goes back; I live again through the cycle of my woes.
Again I travel to the shaft-bench.
The sun ... what hour does he show? p. 123
Dusk. . . . Alone in the moonlight
I must go my way.
Though the watchmen of the barriers
Stand across my path,
They shall not stop me!

Look, I go!

Lifting the white skirts of my trailing dress,

Pulling down over my ears the tall, nodding hat,
Tying over my head the long sleeves of my hunting cloak,
Hidden from the eyes of men,
In moonlight, in darkness,
On rainy nights I travelled; on windy nights,
Under a shower of leaves; when the snow was deep,

And when water dripped at the roof-eaves,--tok, tok . . .

Swiftly, swiftly coming and going, coming and going
One night, two nights, three nights,
Ten nights (and this was harvest night) . . .
I never saw her, yet I travelled;
Faithful as the cock who marks each day the dawn,
I carved my marks on the bench.
I was to come a hundred times;
There lacked but one . . .

My eyes dazzle. Oh the pain, the pain!

Oh the pain! and desperate,
Before the last night had come,
He died,--Shii no Shōshō the Captain.

Was it his spirit that possessed me,
Was it his anger that broke my wits?
If this be so, let me pray for the life hereafter,
Where alone is comfort;
Piling high the sands 1
Till I be burnished as gold. 2
See, I offer my flower 3 to Buddha,
1 hold it in both hands.
Oh may He lead me into the Path of Truth,
Into the Path of Truth.