As a-- As an agrarian anarchist of sorts
Miyazawa wrote a few poems with a rather gentle protest nature.
This is one.
It's called "Distant Labor."
Beyond the pampas-grass flowers and the dark grove
a new sort of wind is blowing through dazzling, wrinkly,
cloud fretwork and spring sun with a shiver of strange odors.
And from the hill behind the empty creek and the barely
rising black smoke of the tile works a big cheerful racket.
Listening from the farmers' fields,
it seems pleasant enough work all right
but every night Chuichi comes home
from there exhausted and bad-tempered.