Across the mountains of Unohana-yama and the valleys of Kurikara- dani, I entered the city of Kanazawa on July the fifteenth, where I met a merchant from Osaka named Kasho who invited me to stay at his inn.

There was in this city a man named Issho whose unusual love of poetry had gained him a lasting reputation among the verse writers of the day. I was told, however, that he had died unexpectedly in the winter of the past year. I attended the memorial service held for him by his brother.

Move, if you can hear,
Silent mound of my friend,
My wails and the answering
Roar of autumn wind.

A visit to a certain hermitage:

On a cool autumn day,
Let us peel with our hands
Cucumbers and mad-apples
For our simple dinner.