re: 不思議なお祓い棒

Man, how can a person make such a beautiful melody,
without having lived in the mountains, as a hermit;
and survived for 40 years with only the bitterness of dewy green herbs,
and the sweetness of red knife-slain beasts?

Man, I wonder.
Is that Mountain tall or small?
Is that Mountain far or further?
Are the trees still there?
Are the green trees still there?
the groves. did Roman emperors or
feudal European Kings cut them down?
the body so green.
the body so green.
the fruits are yet bitter and green.
the billowing black waves, all-oppressive
of heaven pressing down, and all that were youthful once
became more false sweeter things in non-glistening darkness.

ancient altar not to the gods,
but forgotten ghosts, gnomes. goblins and medicine men of yore.
I burnt the tallow of whale in a silver cup inlaid with emerald cracks
immolating yellow talismans that purchases the liberation of the grain-slaves in the Realm of Roots (underworld, 根の国） 
through a hard bargain. and the eastern bronze-hued frankincense are burning
while there is a lone star that belongs to my home town,
the star which is me,
looking down upon the absence of ocean beneath, the ocean,
that only exists as reflections or deflections of light against the dancing dust.
the dust that beckons to him, the star. the missing image of a distant home.
he has never been before. 
green in the mountains. and has only one solitary stream.
which beginnings and ends only he knew.
which to save space in his song, would not tell.