Now, however much thou grievest, 'tis of no avail whatever; Join then with us in the prayer for his good in future worlds.
The moon has risen, and the river breeze Blows cool. 'Tis late already, and the gong Tolls out, and we should be upon our knees.[67]
But still the mother in her agony No prayer can voice, but only weeping lie Upon the ground that hides her darling joy.
Yea! 'tis sorrowful, though others have assembled in large numbers, It is _thy_ prayer that his spirit surely would rejoice to hear.
I place the gong[68] now in the mother's hand.
True, 'tis for my child's sake, as I am told, And in my own hands now the gong I hold.
As grief is checked and voices cleared for prayer.
Our thoughts united, to the West[69] we turn.
Thee I adore, Eternal Buddha great, Who still the same, for six-and-thirty times A million million worlds of Paradise,[70] For ever in the west dost permeate. Thee I adore, Eternal Buddha great.
I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha. I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha. I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha.
And to my prayer the river Sumida Adds its loud voice the breeze.
I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha. I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha. I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha.
If true thy name, Bird of the City Royal, Add too thy voice, for this the city's child.
I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha. I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha. I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha.
Oh, that was my child's voice praying, he that said the prayer just now. His voice was it, I am certain, and within this mound it seemed.
As you say, we also heard it. And we now will cease our praying, Thou his mother art, and solely, honourably deign to pray.
Even if nothing but his voice return, I would that I could hear that voice again.
I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha. I adore thee, O Eternal Buddha.
The voice is heard, and like a shadow too Within, can one a little form discern.
The mutual clasp of hand in hand exchanged, Once more he vanished as he first had come, But in her thought increasingly the form Of his reflection did repeat itself As in a polished mirror, to and fro. While gazing at the vision came the dawn And dimly flushed the sky, till naught was left. While what appeared to be the child is now A mound grown thickly o'er with tangled weeds, It has become naught but a rushy marsh, A mark of what was once so very dear. Ah, pitiful indeed is this our life Ah, pitiful indeed is this our life!