Where are you from, traveler from afar,
resting in treetops bared by the winter?
The treetops are lithe
in the haze, arching, rustling, whispering
crossing their swords on the shore of the sky
I look up and hear the distant sounds
Dry leaves are piled on fallen leaves
in the warm sunlight
hard buds have already formed
but those tight packages will unfold on their own
The midday wind pauses at the deep ends of alleys, under trees, over stones
being a traveler it coils around my clasped fingers
poised thus on the tip of my little finger to point to today's journey

Translation: 2010, Takako Lento