The moss was deep in dew, and as I made my way under branches along the overgrown paths, I looked at the stone grave markers, lingering reminders of the dead. I was also saddened by the knowledge that none of my father’s poems had been included in the most recent imperial anthology. Had I still been serving at court, perhaps I might have been able to appeal, for one of his poems had appeared in every anthology since the Shokukokinshū. The thought that my heritage—a poetic tradition upheld by our family for eight generations—had come to such a hollow end upset me. My father’s last words resounded in my ears.

Lamenting our ancient name
I have set myself adrift,
A fishing boat forsaken
On the Bay of Poetry. [5.26]