On a woodland road at nightfall

The Evening Star rose earlier than normal;
I managed to finish my work.
Our horse had gone smashing through the wind-break
then galloped all over the buckwheat field
and messed it up as if he were scattering a crowd
so I had to go, dragging the horse along with me
to make apologies to the field's owner.
But doing a bit of wrong is a beautiful thing, really.
On my way I may meet unexpected sorrows.

The owner's house lies up in the hinterland
beyond the chestnut grove.
Look! the pale field stands out more clearly
once the sun has set!
I do not scold the horse as it trots along behind me,
only murmur in a low voice as we follow the woodland road.
Now we're nearly there. If you become a bit humbler,
I'll be your companion in humility, we'll grow old together.

At the entrance to the chestnut grove
someone seems to come looming up behind us.
I keep looking back but total darkness
is nudging at the horse's tail.
The nightfall woodland road is full of traces
of the field's owner so I exercise my talents
thinking of all the different things
I'll say in response to the owner's performance.
We did wrong. Our horse was full of remorse,
he whined for a whole while afterwards.
But the owner who won't be angry
isn't back yet.
Or rather the owner who will be angry
isn't back yet.

I stroke his youngest daughter's hair.
How odd! My apologetic gesture hardens
against the child's head.
Moss will grow on this child's tongue
and she'll die.
Not able to meet the owner I take my leave.
A smell of rotting greens pursues us
until we have left the woodland house far behind.
My steps keep slipping
the horses' long face exudes sorrow.
Death exists, how can we ever think
of offering it some kind of polite apologies?

Now back quickly towards the south-west
I and my aged horse.
My horse and I, united by work
long shared together, have a single heart.
This wasn't the way we came! My eyes seek wildly
for the path we came by, on the unfamiliar road
our hearts shudder grimly.
The horse follows tamely behind me, imitating
the closeness of Widow Oh in the story.
A stream can be heard murmuring somewhere alone.
The life of a magpie that one day must die
is uttering magpie calls like starlight.
We'll keep the sound of the stream close to us
come sorrow, pain, or sin.

We're nearly there now.
Apologizing for my fault was not a problem
but the little girl will die
I murmur almost inaudibly but at once
the horse's rump droops.
This world's work is all touched close with death.
The road we follow returning
from our journey to apologize, is touched
by smells of trees and earth.
The darkness inside the evening woodlands
is returning from the sea's high tide.
Look! The owner's little daughter's death
is out playing hide-and-seek
taking leave of twilight's last glimmerings,
in all sincerity.
With the digging finished earlier than usual,
the day is over now.
We have come a long way from the house
of the field's owner, down a strange road.
Tomorrow's jobs have become the many tributaries
of some great river, they fail to come to mind.
My horse seems to feel that we are standing
before a departed soul.
Tonight it wants me to stay for while at least
the two of us together, in its stable.
The stable is well-kept, the only smell comes
from the horse's belly.
Hurry up! From the house comes a splashing sound.
Someone is washing.