The Bottom of Lanjinui

An ancient song of the People of the Springs, telling the legend of the hero Ranjinui.

The bottom of Ranjinui is my homeland.

Whenever I recall my ancestors' old ground,

dawn shows itself in Ranjinui,

looking down on Wayata, the Spring of Flowing Song,

looking down on Tepahu, Valley of Wind-Whiskers,

looking down on Poika, the fertile land—

all these places were my grandfather and grandmother's home;

the bottom of Ranjinui was their hometown.

I will set out to visit my ancestors' land,

when the eels dance on the twenty-fifth night,

from Ohauti, the plain of light winds,

to the leaping shark falls, to the shoal banks,

to Titiruva, the dazzling abyss of light.

I will climb the high mountain lit by dawn,

pay audience to the long-sleeping masters of mountain and spring,

seek where the ancient pygmies once dwelt,

then I will descend, down into the deep valley floor,

down to where glowing fish throng, Tetautama,

down to where strange short plants grow thick, Akaaka.

Down to Mainini, where the undercurrent is soft yet sharp,

then down again to dark Uropi and the bottom of the dense wood…

Alas, alas!

These distant lands, my grandparents' home,

all destroyed by landslide-like disaster, wildfire-like outrage…

My ancestors were once rich and carefree, then fell to famine and wandering;

my heart cries for them, sings grief for their fate—

under the spring a fire is hard to hide: how bitter, how sad!

I will keep wandering along that unceasing spring of sighs,

to the mottled green plain—ancestors called it Kahotia—

and like a good-flying ancient dragon I soar up the mountain of chant…

a city of metal and stone built by the lost tribe of Heaven's envoys,

yet ruined by fire from high heaven and the fury of ancient kings.

Alas, alas!

So I wander on toward fertile Poika;

ancestors said Ranjinui once stood there holding heaven and earth,

a sage who spoke with high heaven, a warrior of the land;

when the soul returned to the dawn of high heaven, heaven itself became Ranjinui.

Then from the fertile land I go straight to the far beach;

on the tendril-grown shoal I end my last journey.

I have climbed barren lonely volcanoes;

my eyes have seen countless hot springs;

then I will go to the other side beneath the undercurrent,

to seek the ferryman with a canoe and a feathered crown—

and when at last I see that crown flashing gold,

I will gather again with my kin in the garden of Hairini,

the birthplace of the forgotten king of men;

I will call kin and friends, and we will go together.