Kumo ni akete tsukiyo ato nashi aki no kaze
It dawns in clouds;
Nothing remains of the night and its moon;
The wind of autumn is blowing.
This “nothing remains” reminds one of Thoreau’s
words:
Over the old wooden bridges no traveller crossed.
This “no traveller” is the one who always walks deserted
roads. So this morning when clouds cover the skies,
nothing remains of that bright sphere of the evening
before; and yet the poet sees it, “in my mind’s eye,
Horatio.”
The hidden side 