Tangled Hair
Oh, for the sea
Where, in the house of my parents,
I grew up a maiden,
Counting the distant roars of the tides!
On this lovely spring eve
The Holy Sûtra is bitter to my mouth.
O Bodhisattvas of the Inner Shrine,
Pray, accept my song!
On a late spring evening,
At the reading of the Holy Sûtra
In the Inner Shrine,
Cherry blossoms are falling
On my sister and Bodhisattvas.
Dimming the light in the arbor,
We each wrote out our thoughts
On the fragile lotus leaves.
21 
