Classical Poetry of Shiga

In the autumn fields, a humble harvest hut— through gaps in the rough-woven thatch, my sleeves grow heavy with the falling dew.

Through fields of royal purple, glowing madder-red, Past forbidden grounds where watchful guards are set— Do they not see you waving your sleeve at me?

Though Karasaki of Shiga still stands unchanged, where gentle waves lap at the shore— I wait in vain for the courtiers' boats that will never return.

On Lake Biwa's shore, plovers cry over evening waves—and when I hear them, my heart bends low, remembering the ancient days.

Even the gods of Sasanami's shores grow lonely in their neglect— this ruined capital, how it breaks my heart

So this is the place— where travelers meet and part, strangers and friends alike passing through Ōsaka's gate

Though you mimic the cock's crow in the depths of night to fool me— this barrier of Meeting Hill shall never open for you.

The ancient pine of Karasaki— more dreamlike than cherry blossoms, veiled in spring mist

As spring slips away, I linger with the people of Ōmi— together we grieve its passing.

Snow has fallen on Mount Hira's peak— If only travelers would pass over Shiotsu Mountain to tell me so.