A Story Poem by Hiroshi Satow

We talked about her,
An old woman about 80 or more,
Always holding a dirty teddy bear in one hand,
And a worn-out umbrella in the other.
We often saw her come and go in the doorway,
At night or in the middle of the night,
Talking to herself about earthquakes
That occurred or is going to.
Her husband long gone away,
She had no sons or daughters nor any relatives or friends,
Staying in her room in the morn and evening like a mole,
Coming out of it when dark and dusk like an ant.
We talked about her wherever we met;
She’s bizarrely dressed,
She’s odd or weird,
She’s a psycho.
At last she was dead.
Nobody knew it until after a week had passed.
In the bed lied the woman,
This little creature now skin and bones,
At the foot of whom
Were found two kittens,
Black and white,
Snuggled up to each other;
All as if dreaming
A peaceful and everlasting dream.