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Poet Sagawa Chika Late Gathering
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Prose
Prelude
Out of sight and covered by clouds, the leaves multiply with incredible vigor. They come without warning, the sycamore and zelkova trees brimming with new leaves; like wriggling creatures they well up and overflow, sparkle. From a distance, I see the air suddenly converge, black clusters overlapping into darkness, which then gradually spreads towards the hills. It seems to transform into a thicket, though it is unclear whether there is a large thicket or if it is a row of trees. At times the sky is so tall and distant, it would seem it got so dirty because something injured it. The hollow below is a field, youthful like the breast of a pigeon, and the city ladies raise their brows and say things like, Why, isn’t that just like the Spada Cape. Sitting on their picnic blankets, eating sandwiches and chocolates, they discuss the lovely weather, and how organdy fabric butterflies are going to be in fashion this summer. All this time, a fountain of green rotates ceaselessly, with the sheen of newspapers being churned out of a rotary press.
I feel dizzy knowing of the varied and repeating lives of the infinite morning plants. There are no human footsteps, no scent of butter or cheese, but nonetheless as I regard their stifling propagation, their battles and exultations, I am on the brink of losing. Outside the house, yet so very near to us, they align their menacing footsteps, moaning in inexplicable gloom, forcing me to keep watch outside. I wonder how long it’s been since I was dragged in and ensnared by such surroundings. The only things I can see without noise or deception, aside from the air and sky and trees and grass, are their flowing colors and rough, lurid shapes. With a strange intensity, they shove me out the door, making me sad, making me angry.
When I slowly open my eyes, as if goaded into it, there is a simple exchange of greetings with nature, close to my eyelids. I feel that I have awakened. Then the ceiling, stained yellow from the leaking rain, and the walls covered with small nail holes, are gradually absorbed by the weak violet light trying to wake up, receding further and further away. I feel I have lost something I should not have allowed to escape. Just like when a child clings to the hopes of being reunited with some lost object. Even as I long to grasp it, it feels tepid like lukewarm water, and nothing ever returns. As my upper body suddenly grows lighter, I am unable to remember anything, and there is no longer any appeal in the fact of its passing. And then the woods and sun and fence appear vividly as if they had been left behind from an early morning dream.
Those nearby will likely continue their usual, gentle repetitions. These clustered shapes of plants should have nothing to do with me, but somehow I feel the need to be cautious of each and every one, as if I am bound to them. I grow drowsy watching over the moving tips of treetops, and every day as I mumble to myself, the day comes to an end.
The elm tree in the center spreads its stiff branches like a wedding veil, and weeds surround the base of the tree like the teeth of a saw. The dots of color that mark the unkempt grass—dahlias, columbines, white nettle, rushes—spin like plastic toys. Indeed space is unable to drop away and cut its ties to the leaf veins, placed as it is atop the tangled mesh. I contemplate how the small existence of ants moving back and forth between the blades of grass occupies most of space. I had not been aware of such narrow and dark paths—there is ongoing life for those walking the wire beyond the notice of humans, that could be erased at the flick of a finger and without a trace—if the chestnut flowers should for no reason cluster and fall on them, the insects, all the more hidden from view, will time and again move on to the next blade. What are you thinking, and where are you headed? No matter how meaningless your beginnings may have been, try not to lose hope before ascertaining your direction.
It arrives as a matter of course, returns without going astray, and what’s more, has unceremoniously traveled around the world—the season, when it explodes into an overabundance of sprouts and seedlings, has us hoping for the vibrant construction of plant matter.  And with the same kind of speed: all the plants in this world of avarice manage to share their fine downy tufts in every which direction, guiding people to point their gaze elsewhere. But before we could take notice, through our preconditioned field of vision, it was replaced with something unfamiliar, and thus we have come to crave freedom and an intensity of color.
I see the day break through the shaggy, frizzy green gates. Dawn, emerging from the depths of the atmosphere and flowing gently like clearing mist, is a beautiful labyrinth. People tend to think unseemly things when encountering something that is too beautiful. I wonder if something bad happened while we were sleeping. It seems calm on the surface, but only because it conceals a secret, this quietude brimming with eerie uncertainty. I might get murdered if I don’t let out a scream soon. I am steeped in this stagnant air—why do I not resist. We are possessed and trapped by the suffocating, humid sweat of the grass as it wells up from the ground—the plants steal all human vitality, and stage a grand banquet without end.
In a flash I come to believe that trees have blue blood coursing through them. For they speak in such a prophet-like manner. Because the tree sap stains the scant skin and muscles of our bodies, my hands swell up, my heart is so cold it’s about to tear apart. On farms in the North, they say that wheat must be quickly harvested and dried, lest the calves come tearing through the fence. And that wool scarves should be prepared. Soon the snow will come in and winter-burn the trees.
The women have taken to planning their days around patterns in the sky, or the colors of flowers. They worry about the state of the weather, measuring warmth or coldness at the tips of their fingernails. They believe that there is some kind of promise or communication that connects the scene outside their windows with the color of their clothes or lipstick, or even the placement of furniture. They believe that they must stay in harmony with these gradations that constantly control them. At times they try to bloom more beautifully than a flower. This is why, as they gaze at the colors of flowers or watch a tree growing, their skin and their movements are changing, all of their own accord.
The plants grow with so much vigor and abundant change that it renders me unable to read books or smoke cigarettes. As I try to not miss a single small movement of their expressions—their swaying branches, their envelopment in flames—my own expressiveness grows utterly useless, and even if I laugh, or raise my hand, it seems I am merely imitating their expressions. There is not a single thing that is mine, I am simply repeating their movements, stealing their expressions. I can no longer tell which is the shadow of which. There is nothing I have given them. And yet I have accepted everything they do. Sooner or later I shall transform into a tree and disappear into the grove. All this time I had believed I was alive, and yet perhaps I do not even exist. The mere shadow of a tree, the ghost-like figure that crawls the ground only in the afternoon—these too will soon grow invisible. Eventually, the wisdom of the trees will pass, up and above our heads. People will lose their equilibrium, almost toppling over, and stagger forward, pressing their hats against their heads. I learned that the passion I had long devoted to humans did not amount to much; it was like the time I regretted the injury to my finger from scraping at shards of glass.
After every face and every incident has been forgotten, the first memories to emerge are forms of nature, like the shape of a mountain or the size of a tree. And then, various events, buildings, and food are drawn out, like yarn being spun, and humans peer in between, in confusion, and then it turns into a languishing memory. If the past is to be discarded like a worn scrap of air, I wonder what kind of conversation would be the most comforting to the aging. The reason why people stare back into the distance until their scars are shining brilliantly is because each person holds in their heart the belief that our youthful adolescence lies in the direction where the flowers are blooming.
The rain washes the trees all day, and begins its duet with the earth. Out of nowhere, or in bits and pieces, a rhythmical wave surges forward, coloring the plants in reds and yellows. The cheerful music that we desire and where we want to linger seems to be quickening the seasons by quite a bit. I could no longer make out the voices. Autumn has only just begun, but there are coals in the stove, and the entire family has come out on the balcony to listen to the simple tune played by invisible strings. A branch like a steel frame hangs from the sky, and the fabric of the awning is removed. The elm tree is now naked. Time here seems to pass in the direction of the leaves falling. In their hearts, everyone laments their age. Because one ring is a souvenir of a lively day, but also becomes a chain tying us to the past. All that has faded scatters in the sky, waiting for the final cadence. The hollow echoes approaching gradually seem like desolate melodies wandering between the trees—are they changes in nature, or a regulated order longing for radiant dreams upon my lips.
前奏曲

雲に蔽はれた見えないところで木の葉が非常な勢で増えてゐる。いつの間に運ばれるのかプラタナスも欅も新しい葉で一杯になり、生きものが蠢めいてゐるやうに盛り上つてこぼれるばかりに輝いてゐる。遠くで見てゐると空気が俄かにかき集められ、黒い塊がかさなり合つて暗がりをつくり、それが次第に丘の方に拡つて茂みになつてゐるやうに思はれるだけで、ほんとうに其処に大きな茂みがあるのか、木が並んでゐるのかわからない。或る時は空が何かで傷つけられたのであんなにも汚れてゐるのだと考へられたりする程、高く離れてゐる。その下の凹地は鳩の胸のやうに若若しい野原で、都会から来た婦人たちは(まるでスパダ湾のやうですわ)といつて驚く。そして軟かい敷物の上に坐つて、サンドヰツチやチヨコレエトを食べながらこの地方の気候のよいことやこの夏にはオオガンヂイの蝶が流行するだらうと話してゐる。その間にもたえず緑の泉は旋廻し、輪転機から新聞紙が吐き出されてゐるやうに光つてゐる。
私は終ることのない朝の植物等の生命がどんなに多彩な生活を繰返してゐるかを知ることが出来て目がくらみさうだ。全く人間の足音も、バタやチーズの匂もしないけれど、息づまるやうな繁殖と戦ひと謳歌が行はれてゐるのを見てゐるうちに、負けてしまひさうになる。私たちの住んでゐる外側で、しかもすれすれの近いところで嚇かしでもするやうな足並を揃へ、わけのわからない重苦しいうめき声をたてるので私はいつも戸外ばかりを見てゐなければならない。いつの頃からこんな風物にとりかこまれ、またその中に引きづられて行くことになつたのだらう。空気と空と樹木と草むらだけの他に何の噪音も誤魔化しもなく私が見えるものといへばこれ等のものの流れるやうな色と形の大まかな毒毒しさである。それが不思議な迫力で私を入口から押し出したり、悲しませたり怒らしたりする。
追ひたてられてでもゐるやうにぼんやり目を開くと、瞼のそばでその自然の挨拶だけがとりかはされる。私は目が覚めたのだと思ふ。さうすると雨漏りのあとのついた黄色な天井も、鋲で到るところに小さな穴がある壁も眠りから覚めようとする菫色の弱い光にぢき吸収され、どんどん後に退いてしまふ。私はなにかしら逃がしてはいけないものを失つたやうな気がする。子供が紛失したものをいつ迄も諦めきれずに、めぐり合はせを待つあの時と同じやうに。それからまた捕ふてみたいと思つてもそこは湯のやうに生温いだけで再び戻つて来るものはない。上半身が急に軽くなつたやうな気がすると、何事も思ひだせなくなつて、もはや過ぎ去つたといふことがそんなに魅力をもたなくなる。そして森や太陽や垣根が明け方の夢からとり残されたと思はれるやうに鮮やかに現はれるのである。
周囲はいつものやうに緩やかな繰返しを続けるのだらう。この植物の一群の形態は私と何等のかかはりもない筈なのに、私はなぜかしばられたやうに彼らの一つ一つに注意しなければならない。梢の先が動いてゐるのを見てゐると眠くなり、毎日ぶつぶつ独り言をしやべつてゐると日が暮れてしまふ。
庭の中央の楡は婚礼のヴエールのやうに硬い枝を拡げ、その根元は鋸の歯の形に雑草がとり巻いてゐる。荒れた叢をところどころ区別する斑点ーーダリヤ、オダマキ、オドリコ草、灯心草等がセルロイドの玩具のやうに廻つてゐる。さうだ、空間は葉脈のつながりから落ちることが出来ない、もつれた網目の上に乗せられて。ただ草の茎と茎の間を蟻が行つたり来たりしてゐるそのやうな小さな営みが殆んど空間を占めてゐることを考へる。こんな細く、そしてうす暗い道があつたのかしら、ちよつと指が触れると、あとかたもなく消えてしまふ針金を渡つて歩いてゐる生活が人の気付かない処で休みなく営まれてゐる、栗の花がわけもなく群がり散つてゐるとより見えない昆虫どもが幾度も同じやうに次の茎へ移る。お前は何を考へてゐるのか、お前はどこへ行くのか、最初のスタートがどんなに無意味であつたとしても、方向を見定めないうちに絶望しないやうに。

当然やつて来るべきものが、コースを間違へないでまた帰つて来たと思はれる季節が、しかも何の予告もなしにいつの間にか地球のまはりをめぐり、夥しい種子の芽を吹き出す時に、私たちはどんなにか盛んな植物等の建設を望んだらう。同じやうな速さで草木は短い羽毛を貪欲な世界にすべての分野をわかち与へ人の目を別な方面へ導いていく。併し私たちの馴らされた視野が気付かぬ間に、見知らぬものに置き換へられてしまつたために、強烈な色彩と自由を渇望するやうになつた。
もぢやもぢやに縮れた緑の門の中から夜の明けるのが見える。靄の晴れる如く、ゆるやかに流れて、大気の奥からやつて来る黎明は美しい迷宮である。あまり美しいものを見ると誰でもよくないことを考へがちなものである。私たちの眠つてゐるうちに、悪い事があつたのではないかと思ふ。表面はおだやかさうに見えるがあれは秘密を隠してゐるからだ、気味悪い不安をたたへた静けさ。早く叫び声をださなければ殺されるかも知れない。このやうに澱んだ空気に浸つてなぜ反抗しないのだらう。われわれは呼吸が困難な程湿気の多い草いきれが地上から湧きあがる中に憑かれて、閉ぢこめられてゐるのに、植物は人間からあらゆる生気を奪つて、尽くることのない饗宴をはつてゐる。
樹木は青い血液をもつてゐるといふことを私は一度で信じてしまつた。彼らは予言者のやうな身振りで話すので。樹液は私たちの体のわづかばかりの皮膚や筋肉を染めるために手は腫れあがり、心臓は冷たく破れさうだ。北国の農園では仔牛が柵を破壊してやつて来るので麦は早く刈りとつて乾燥しなければならないだらうし、それから羊毛の衿巻も用意しなければと人々は云つてゐる。まもなく雪が降つて木を枯らしてしまふのだらう。
女達は空模様や花の色などで自分等の一日を組立てることばかり考へるやうになつた。お天気の工合が気になり、暖かさや寒さが爪の先まで感じられる。例へば着物や口紅の色が、家具の配置までが、その時の窓外の景色と何か連絡があり約束があるのだと考へる。常にそれらの濃淡の階調に支配され調和してゆかなければならないと思ふ。彼女たちは或る時は花よりも美しく咲こうとする。だから花卉の色や樹の生えてゐる様子を見てゐると女の皮膚や動作がひとりでに変わつてゐる。
変化に富んだ植物の成長がどんなに潑溂としてゐることだらう、私は本を読むことも煙草を吸ふことも出来なくなつた。枝が揺れてゐる、焰々ととりまかれてゐる、と彼らの表情のどんな小さな動きをも見逃さないやうに、と思つてゐるうちに、私自身の表現力は少しも役に立たないものになつて、手を挙げたり、笑つたりすることすら彼らの表情のとほりを真似てゐるにすぎない。私のものは何一つなく彼らの動いてゐるそのままの繰返しで、また彼らから盗んだ表情なのである。どちらが影なのかわからなくなつた。私が与へたものは何もない。それなのに彼らのすることはどんなことでも受け入れてしまつた。こうしてゐるうちに私は一本の樹に化して樹立ちの中に消えてしまふだらう。私は今まで生きてゐると思つてゐただけで実は存在してゐないのかも知れないのだ。単なる樹木の投影、昼の間だけ地面を這つてゐるおばけのやうな姿、それもすぐ見えなくなつてしまふのに。やがて樹木の思惟がわれわれの頭上をどんどん追ひ越していく。人は平衡を失ひ、倒れさうになり、頭髪を圧へつけられるのか帽子をかかへてあぶなつかしい歩き方をする。私は長い間人間に費やしてゐた熱情がつまらないものであることを知つた、それは丁度硝子の破片をのみ引掻いてゐた指の傷害を悔ゆる時のやうに。
どの人の顔もどの事件も忘れられてしまつてゐるのに、やはり最初に想出されるのは山の恰好とか木の大きさなどの自然の姿態であつて、それらから糸を繰るやうに、いろんな出来事とか建物、食物などが引きだされ、人間はその間からいりみだれて覗くだけで、衰へた記憶になつてしまふ。昔のことはひときれの古びた空気だとして捨て去られるとしたら、老人にとつてどんな会話が最も慰めになるだらう。各々の人の胸のうちで瘡痕が輝くやうになるまで、遠くの方へ去つてしまふのをふりかへつてゐるのはきつと花の咲いてゐる方に青春があると思ふからだらう。
雨が終日樹木を洗つて、地上との二重奏が始まる。どこからともなく、或はきれぎれに韻律のある波が押し寄せて、草木を黄や赤に変へた。求めやうとする、とどまらうとする明るい音楽は季節を大分早めてゐるやうな気がする。話声は聴きとれなくなつた。まだ秋になつたばかりなのにストーヴの中には石炭が投げこまれる、家族のものはみなヴエランダへ出て見えない弦の奏でる単純な曲に耳を傾けてゐる。空から鉄骨のやうな枝がぶらさがつて、日覆の布は取除けられる。楡は裸になつた。ここでは時間は葉が離れる方へ経過してゐるやうに思はれる。誰しも心では年齢を歎きつつ。一つの輪は賑やかな日の記念であり、過去へ続く鎖ともなるから。色褪せたすべては空中に散乱して最後の歩調を待つてゐる。段段近づいてくる空しい響き、それは樹間をさまよう落魄の調べであらうとは、自然の転移、また定められた秩序が唇の上で華やかな夢を望むのか。

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