On the fifth of the second month, we hurried from the Izumi coast toward the harbor of Ozu. Pine groves stretched as far as the eye could see.
Going on like this, we rowed past Sumiyoshi. Someone composed a poem: "Seeing it now, I understand: I have lived longer than the pines on the shore of Sumiyoshi." Then the mother of the dead child, who could not forget for a single day or a moment, composed this: "Bring the boat to the shore of Sumiyoshi; I want to pick the grass of forgetting and see if it truly makes one forget the one we long for." She did not mean to forget entirely, but to rest her longing heart for a while, to gain strength to long all the more.
As she said this and gazed out absently, a wind suddenly rose, and however we rowed, the boat was driven back and seemed about to sink. The helmsman said, "This god of Sumiyoshi is a greedy god, as usual. He must want something." Very much the way people talk these days.
So he said, "Make an offering of paper strips." We did as he said, but the wind did not stop at all; it blew harder and the waves rose higher, and it was dangerous. The helmsman said again, "The god isn't pleased with paper strips, so the boat won't move. Offer something the god will like better." Again we did as told: "What shall we do?" "We have two eyes, but only one mirror. Let us offer it." And it was thrown into the sea, which was a great pity. At once the sea grew as calm as the face of a mirror. Someone composed a poem:
"Throwing a mirror into the raging sea, we saw the god's heart at the same time."
Truly, the god of Sumiyoshi is no elegant god of pines and grasses of forgetting. Reflected in the mirror, the god's heart was plain to see. The helmsman's heart must be the very heart of the god.