The name of this poem, written by Iku Takenaka (1904-1982), is Story:

Quietly the cloud cast its shadow,
Passing over avenues of trees, over ponds, over fields.
Enduring both joy and sadness, the cloud silently drifted on…

Then, above the sound of a single flute, the cloud stopped,
Seeking the one who played: but there was no one.

And then the cloud began again its long journey
Through the hemisphere of night, not knowing its direction.


They are eating the house across the street

They are eating the house across the street
Giant slabs of flesh have already been torn from its skeleton
The destroyers are even now, in the rain and the snow, surveying their plunder

The man with the big white dog died
And the skinny young woman slipped away in the night

The doors and windows that let its erstwhile inhabitants seep into and out of the neighborhood, and nature, will never open or close again


The fireplace where generations of children warmed themselves against the river wind is now a cornucopia of rubble

The rain and snow, at least, are happy
They can finally fall on the walls and floors that were hidden from them, under a terracotta roof, for a century

When they finish eating – too much, too fast – they will vomit up a new structure,
Where beauty is forbidden,
And the only yardstick left to measure with is greed

Villa Rosa Bonheur (1924-2020)