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As a-- As an agrarian
anarchist of sorts

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Miyazawa wrote a few poems with
a rather gentle protest nature.

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This is one.

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It's called "Distant Labor."

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Beyond the pampas-grass
flowers and the dark grove

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a new sort of wind is blowing
through dazzling, wrinkly,

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cloud fretwork and spring sun
with a shiver of strange odors.

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And from the hill behind the
empty creek and the barely

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rising black smoke of the tile
works a big cheerful racket.

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Listening from the
farmers' fields,

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it seems pleasant
enough work all right

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but every night
Chuichi comes home

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from there exhausted
and bad-tempered.