Gedicht
Shinjiro Kurahara
SALMON
Some slices of a salmonon the white dish.
At nine a.m. in the water of the north country
on which the blue sun threw its rays
the cornered salmon died with its last shriek,
like a rat’s,
while all its scales turned rainbow.
Every morning
at nine
the ghost of that salmon
comes and goes in the sea of the white dish.
© Translation: 2010, Mariko Kurahara, William I. Elliott, Katsumasa Nishihara
From: Iwana
Publisher: Dowaya, Tokyo, 2010
From: Iwana
Publisher: Dowaya, Tokyo, 2010
鮭
鮭
白い皿の上の鮭の切身
午前九時の青い太陽の
投影する北国の水の中
おいつめられたあいつが
きゅうといって息たえた時
あいつの鱗は全部虹色に光った
午前九時になると
いつでも あいつの亡霊が
白い皿の海を
いったりきたりする
© 1964, Shinjiro Kurahara
From: Iwana
Publisher: Dowaya, Tokyo
From: Iwana
Publisher: Dowaya, Tokyo
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鮭
白い皿の上の鮭の切身
午前九時の青い太陽の
投影する北国の水の中
おいつめられたあいつが
きゅうといって息たえた時
あいつの鱗は全部虹色に光った
午前九時になると
いつでも あいつの亡霊が
白い皿の海を
いったりきたりする
From: Iwana
SALMON
Some slices of a salmonon the white dish.
At nine a.m. in the water of the north country
on which the blue sun threw its rays
the cornered salmon died with its last shriek,
like a rat’s,
while all its scales turned rainbow.
Every morning
at nine
the ghost of that salmon
comes and goes in the sea of the white dish.
© 2010, Mariko Kurahara, William I. Elliott, Katsumasa Nishihara
From: Iwana
Publisher: 2010, Dowaya, Tokyo
From: Iwana
Publisher: 2010, Dowaya, Tokyo
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