What can I say about the path to Waka Bay: immeasurable as the depths of the sea whose bed is impossible to plumb, and as distant as a myriad leagues across the waves—an ending none can know. Verily, it draws folks’ hearts as a net pulled in across the distant tideways, but the nature of its heart is as indeterminable as a drifting fisher boat. Just as what is named ‘beach grass’ on the isle of Ise, brushed by divine winds, and magnificent reeds around Naniwa are called stubby stalks in the Eastlands, so in addition to the same poem being received differently according to folks’ hearts, there may also be flaws among the jewels of diction or gold found among the pebbles, and to close oneself off on Mount Oshio, and only mention the high points of the River Yoshino, would be a source of grief at such as degradation of the Way; thus, in awe of the divine guardian of Way, and in deference to those who love it, have I allowed the shallow spring of my own words to express the waters of my foolish heart, that the sight of them may, perhaps, be of some effect, turning my night-robes inside out, time and time again, feeling the sleeves stiff with ice.