aki goto ni hamori no kami no tsuraki kana momiji o kaze ni makasu to omoeba
Every single autumn, The guardian deity of the leaves is Cruel, indeed! The scarlet leaves to the wind He does abandon, I feel…
Narinaka 89
Right
くれなゐに梢の色のかはるより風の音さへあらずなるかな
kurenai ni kozue no iro no kawaru yori kaze no oto sae arazunaru kana
Since to scarlet The treetops hues Have changed, Even the sound of the wind is Not as it was!
Tōren 90
The Left depicts things just as they are. If the Right has the same conception as the Cathay-style poem on the wind lessening every morning at Shanglin Park,[1] then it’s that one feels that after the leaves have turned, they’ll scatter, yet one has to think that, later, in summer the treetops will grow lush again, and the sounds do not resemble each other; neither of these are faults and so the round ties.
asahiyama mine no momiji o miwataseba yomo no kozue ni terimasarikeri
When upon Asahi Mountain’s Peak of scarlet leaves I turn my gaze, All over, the treetops Shine most bright!
Tamechika 81
Right (Win)
紅のやしほの色にめかれすなおなじはもりの神といへども
kurenai no yashio no iro ni mekaresu na onaji hamori no kami to iedomo
From the scarlet, Deeply dyed, hues O, avert not your eyes! Though the same leaves’ guardian Deity you are called…
Moromitsu 82
The Left has nothing particular to say and its expression is awkward. As for the Right, a number of learned men seem to have said that one does not compose about the guardian deity of the leaves in relation to trees in general, but about oak trees, yet a great many things have deities to protect them, so I wonder if the guardian deity of the leaves could be a deity for all types of tree—couldn’t it protect any of them? Thus, in this poem, too, couldn’t that be the case? While the concluding ‘though you are called’sounds overly direct, it appears it should win.
