This book is aware of everything that passed before my eyes and worried my heart, I wrote in the silence and seclusion of my house…
In the spring it’s dawn.
Everything is whiter than the edge of the mountains, here they are lighted up a little. The clouds, touched by purple, spread thinly over the sky with thin ribbons.
In the summer – night.
No words, she is beautiful in the moonlight, but the moonless moon pleases her eyes when countless fireflies run in the air…
In the autumn, it’s twilight.
The sunset sun, casting bright rays, approaches the battlements of the mountains. Crows, three, four, two, rush to their nests – what a sad charm! The sun will set, and all is full of unspeakable sadness: the sound of the
In the winter, early morning.
Fresh snow, there is nothing to say, beautiful, white frost too, but a wonderful and frosty morning without snow. Hurry up the fire, bring in the burning coals – and you feel the winter! The fourth moon is beautiful during the Kamo festival. The ceremonial caftans of the noblest dignitaries, the higher courtiers differ only in the shade of purple, darker and lighter. The underwear is made of white silk. So it’s chilling, the thin foliage on the trees is young green. And in the evening light clouds will run in, somewhere in the distance hiding the cry of the cuckoo, as unclear as if it sounds to you… But how worried is the heart! Young girls – participants in the solemn procession – have already washed and combed their hair, pre-holiday fuss reigns in the house – then the ties have torn, then the sandals are not the same. Mothers, aunts, sisters – all dressed up nicely – accompany the girls, each is decent to his rank. Brilliant procession!
It happens that people call the same by different names. Words are dissimilar, but the meaning is one. Speech of a monk. The speech of a man. A woman’s speech.
A little word is fine.
Madame cat, who served at the court, respectfully called the lady
A dog that howls among the white day.
Winter clothes of the color of the crimson plum at the time of the third or fourth moon.
Room for childbirth where the child died.
You wait all night. The dawn is already breaking, when suddenly there is a soft knock at the door. Your heart is beating harder, sending people to the gate to find out who has come, but it turns out that there is not the one you are expecting, but a person completely indifferent to you.
Or here it is.
In the animated house of the zealot of fashion, they bring a poem in an old taste, without special beauties, composed in a moment of boredom by an old man, hopelessly behind the ages.
Long rains in the last month of the year.
What they laugh at.
A man who was known as a great good-natured.
Something that bothers you.
A guest who talks endlessly, when you have no time. If you can not reckon with him, you’ll spank him quickly without long ceremonies. And if the guest is a significant person?
You rub the wand of the carcass, and the hair stuck to the stiff neck. Or in the ink came a pebble and scratching the rumor: a creak-creak.
Something as expensive as a memory. Dried leaves of mallow. Toy utensils for dolls.
In a dreary day, when the rains are pouring, suddenly you will find an old letter from the one who was dear to you.
What pleases the heart,
The heart rejoices when you write on a white, clean paper with such a thin brush that it seems that it will not leave a trace. Twisted soft threads of fine silk. A sip of water in the middle of the night when you wake up from a dream. Flowers on the branches of trees.
The most beautiful is the spring color of red shades: from pale pink to densely crimson. Flowers bloom dazzlingly in the dark green of the oranges. With what to compare their charm the next morning after the rain. The Pomeranian is not inseparable from the cuckoo and is especially dear to people. The flower of the pear is very modest, but in China it is composed of poems. You look – and in fact at the ends of his petals there is a pink reflection, so light that it seems that your eyes are deceiving you.
What is exquisitely beautiful.
A white cape, lined with white, over a pale purple dress.
Eggs of wild goose.
Snow-covered plum color.
A pretty baby who eats strawberries.
At the time of the seventh moon whirlwinds are blowing, the rains rustle. Almost all the time is cold weather, forget about the summer fan. But it’s very pleasant to take a nap in the afternoon, throwing on your head clothes on a thin cotton pad, still holding a faint smell of sweat.
What is in disagreement with each other. Snow on a pitiful shack.
The toothless woman bites the plum and frowns: it is sour. A woman from the very bottom of society wore a purple trousers. In our time, however, you see this at every step.
A man must be accompanied by an escort. The most charming handsome men are worthless in my eyes, if they do not follow the retinue.
The child played with a homemade bow and a whip. He was lovely! I so wanted to stop the crew and hug him.
Leaving the beloved at dawn, a man should not take too much care of his attire. At the moment of parting, he, full of regret, hesitates to rise from the love bed. The lady urges him to leave: it is already light, they will see! But he would be happy if the morning never came. But it happens that another lover jumps out in the morning like a stung. At parting, he throws only: “Well, I went!”
The grass of the omodak is “arrogant”.
Mikuri grass. Grass “mat for leeches.” Moss, young shoots on thawed patches. Ivy. Kislitsa is bizarre in appearance, it is depicted on a brocade.
How sorry I am for the grass “confusion of the heart.”
Themes of poetry. Capital. Creeping vine… Mikuri grass. Foal. Grad.
What will give birth to the alarm.
You arrive on a moonless night in an unfamiliar house. Fire in the lamps do not ignite, so that the faces of women remain hidden from prying eyes, and you sit next to invisible people.
It was a clear, moonlit night. The Empress sat near the veranda. The maid of honor enjoyed her playing the lute. The ladies laughed and talked. But I, leaning against one of the tables of the veranda, remained silent.
“Why are you silent?” Asked the Empress, “Say a word, I’m sad.”
“I only contemplate the innermost heart of the autumn moon,” I replied.
“Yes, that’s exactly what you should have said,” the empress said.
I write for my own pleasure everything that comes to my mind without thinking. Can my negligent sketches stand comparison with real books written according to all the rules of art? And yet there were supportive readers who told me: “It’s wonderful!” I was amazed.