Sue no Matsuyama and Shiogama末の松山·鹽竈

From there I sought out the Tama River at Noda and the Oki no Ishi. At Sue no Matsuyama a temple has been built, and it too is called Sue no Matsuyama. Between the pines it is all a field of graves, and I thought that the vow to join wings and to link branches comes at the last only to this, and my sorrow grew the deeper. As I came into the bay of Shiogama I heard the evening bell.

The sky of the rainy season cleared a little, the early evening moon was faint, and Magaki ga Shima lay close at hand. The little boats of the fishermen rowed in together, and in their voices as they divided the catch I could feel the heart of the poem that said the mooring ropes are sad, and it moved me deeply.

That night a blind priest played the biwa and told what they call the Oku jōruri. It was not the Heike, nor was it the mai. He raised a rustic tune loudly and it was noisy close to my pillow, but it was the old way of a far country still not forgotten, and I thought it admirable.

Early in the morning I worshipped at the Shiogama Myōjin. The governor of the province had raised it again, so the pillars of the shrine are stout and the painted rafters are bright, the stone steps rise nine fathoms, and the morning sun makes the vermilion railing shine. That the spirit of a god should be present so plainly even at the end of such a road, at the border of the dust of this world, is the way of our country, I thought, and I found it truly noble.

Before the shrine there is a treasure pagoda. On the face of its iron doors is written, "Dedicated by Izumi no Saburō in the third year of Bunji." The look of five hundred years ago rose before my eyes, and it was strangely moving. He was a man brave, righteous, loyal, and filial. His fair name has come down to this day, and there is no one who does not think of him with longing. Truly a man should work well at the Way and keep to what is right, for the name, they say, follows after.