Piled on the table a lot of books,
　　When I looked at them
　　There will be a thought floating in the brains,
　　Because the author of these books,
　　Most have died,
　　Some victims died of the lung,
　　Some fell in the revolution,
　　Some crazy the dead.
　　These books simply
　　Gift sent directly from the Land of the Dead,
　　With endless emotion,
　　I make a come.
　　One by one look,
　　My fingers like the line that ascetic monk feet,
　　Prostrated by Temple as pity.
　　So, I pray,
　　Like burning incense burner with incense smoke,
　　I light up tobacco ... ...