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Coarse the rush-mat roof

Sheltering the harvest-hut

Of the autumn rice-field;

And my sleeves are growing wet

With the moisture dripping through.

百(ひゃく)人(にん)一(いっ)首(しゅ) #1 by 天(てん)智(じ)天(てん)皇(のう)

Notes on this poem

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

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