Listen:
“Your basket, with your pretty basket, / your trowel, with your pretty trowel, / maiden picking herbs on this hillside, / I would ask you: Where is your home? / Will you not tell me your name?”
Isn’t that beautiful? Not quite comprehensible, perhaps, but that’s as it should be: It is a poem of fifth-century Japan. People were different, thoughts and feelings were different, everything was different. And yet not.
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