The stone axes found in this valley are blunt.
Inestimable are water and time passed over.
　

I think of the long long patience of this stone,
having become a stone itself,
having been existing as a stone.
　

In a small valley of Sayama, I realize
a　stone does not move for itself.
　

Water in a teacup at my bedside froze too,
I wish to to think ever becoming a stone.
　

When spring comes,
I would say laughing that I often passed midwinter,
having neither rice nor fire.