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Though I would conceal,

In my face it yet appears,

My fond, secret love:

So much that he asks of me,

"Does not something trouble you?"

百(ひゃく)人(にん)一(いっ)首(しゅ) #40 by 平(たいらの)兼(かね)盛(もり)

Notes on this poem

Translation by Clay MacCauley via Hyakunin-Isshu (Single Songs of a Hundred Poets), 1917

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