I hear that men keep these things called diaries; I, a woman, mean to try writing one too.
On the twenty-first day of the twelfth month of a certain year, at about eight in the evening, we set out. I write down a little of what happened then. A certain person, having finished a term of four or five years as governor of the province and completed all the handover formalities, received the release certificate and the rest, left the residence where he had lived, and moved to the place where we were to board the boat. This one and that one, people he knew and people he didn't, came to see him off. Those who had been close to him for years were sorry to part, and as they fussed and bustled about all day, the night grew late.
On the twenty-second, we prayed to reach Izumi safely. Fujiwara no Tokizane gave us a "horse's farewell" (a send-off banquet), even though we were going by boat. High, middle and low, everyone got thoroughly drunk, and, strange to say, they were horsing around beside the salty sea (a pun on azaru, "to frolic," and also "to go bad," as fish do).
On the twenty-seventh, we rowed out from Otsu toward Urado. In the midst of all this, a girl born in the capital had suddenly died in this province, and so, seeing the preparations for departure these days, one could say nothing. We were going home to the capital, yet all one felt was the sorrow of missing the girl who was gone. The others there could not bear it either. Someone wrote out this poem:
"I thought I was going home to the capital, so why this sadness? It is because one will not be going home with us."