I have heard their roar but have never heard them speak. Their beard grows and they cry like a baby. They tumble down to earth with their mane standing on end, this error borne of ignorance. They shot an arrow from a distance and left behind the arrowhead, with no knowledge of such, pitiless Ajisukita. The flames had drunk up all the palm by the shore, Kahikone. Their tail that looks like smoke, their limp idleness. Captivated by their divine face covered in golden scales. We leave the countryside, leaving behind these beloved shores, but the future, even if we don’t go looking for it, remains lined up above the furrows in the field with its fine spikes waving. When the flowers bloom, the bees will also hope for the good weather to hold. Just who is it that remains in that beehive thick with honey?What we see and hear as a guest (even if it is frightening) is novel to the eyes and ears, and because they know nothing, the traveler accepts everything. Coloring the sky, staining the hills, Amenowakahiko. He makes flowers bloom into the past and lays his head to sleep on a stone. Just who exactly are you? The redwing suddenly lost its wingpower and fell like a pebble straight for the grasses by the shore.