A Poem By Ryokan

I don't know about
other countries,
but in this country
there is a horrendous spirit
called Imo, god of smallpox
who comes around
every seven years and
tortures young children.
This year is
exceptionally disastrous.
If we keep counting
the number of coffins
sent off for cremation,
our thumbs will sprain.
The few who survive
are left with demon faces.
Those who have children are panicked.
recently, a couple sent me an offering
for the funeral I had conducted
for their infant boy.
I was told that their next youngest
had also died
of the same disease
the day before yesterday.
So I sent them this poem:

Smoke
disappears into
the heavenly sky.
A child's image
is all that remains.