Viewing Iruma field from Takakura,
I do not find any deceit at all
in the crimson of maple leaves.
　

Looking at Musashi from Sayama,
I see the plain is tensed up,
pulled downwards by the gravity.
　

At Kataoka lined by a brush in blood red,
there stands an isolated tree
still smoldering with rage.
　

An unsuitable crimson of a knot of
varnish trees is there. surrounding
a graveyard with their necks cut off.
　

When the setting sun emits the light like a roar,
all the trees even including the dead ones
stretch up.