Once, on some occasion, I said to Mr. Shigeo Washisu,2 'If the Ah's
and Oh's disappeared from your writings, they'd feel so much more
modern.' Well, here's what he said in reply: 'Ah, you're right. Oh,
that's true, you're right.' Two years since he descended into the
Underworld and, stripped of his temporary personality known as
Shigeo Washisu, joined the common herd of the dead, I wanted to
call to him using Ah's and Oh's abundantly. Ah, Oh, true enough, I
wanted to call to him.

Ah, this land is sick.
Oh, is the soil there fertile?
Ah, what thrives here are stones and weeds.
Oh, do a lot of heads with disjointed neck bones fructify?
Ah, both poetry and potatoes are skinny and dry.
Oh, are the words exploding like the nuts of the dead?
(Ah, Oh, the nuts of the dead, shattered brainpans, also called
scrotums.)
Ah, the underground river escapes the vertically shaking earth's crust.
Oh, does the thick river haze of oblivion cover the ground?

Ah, I dig and dig, but only yellowed white hair.
Oh, is the pubic hair of the soil glistening wet?
Ah, I seek and seek, but only despair turned brownish white.
Oh, is even despair refreshing again and again?
(Ah, Oh, there, even despair revives again and again.)
Ah, the handle of a hoe can only become dry and break into two.
Oh, is the steel amply soaked in the night air?
Ah, the nails can only become deformed and crack into numberless
fissures.
Oh, do the nails and whiskers continue to grow night and day?
Ah, the eyes and the breasts become wrinkled and irritatingly pointed.
Oh, are the breezes through the trees black and delicate?
(Ah, Oh, the trees of the Underworld are equipped with eyes and
breasts.)
Ah, the starved babies weep, impatient with the nipples that only give
blood.
Oh, are even the old, smelly mouths satiated with milk?
Ah, under the man's excitement, the woman is the fire that burns
midsummer thorns.
Oh, is lust properly kept cooled?
Ah, here the fire, too, is frazzled.
Oh, are the flames velvety and pliant?
(Ah, Oh, our fire is a clumsy copy of the fire of the Underworld.)
Ah, it merely scorches uselessly and doesn't purify anything.
Oh, do burnt things learn of the peace of the ashes?
Ah, the dog that has swallowed the sun rolls about on the horizon.
Oh, does the eternal twilight change the barking dog into a gentle
shadow? .
Ah, I look up at the uphill path and, with my brow knit, continue
to ask.
Oh, he continues to descend on the other side of the path, wiping
off his sweat.
(Ah, Oh, his ears will never hear my voice.
That can never happen. Ah, Oh.)