"Under the Cherry Trees" Motojirō Kajii

There are corpses buried beneath the cherry trees!

You can believe this. Why? Because it’s hard to believe that cherry blossoms can bloom so magnificently. I couldn’t trust in that beauty, and for the past few days, it’s been making me uneasy. But now, I finally understand. Beneath the cherry trees, there are corpses buried. You can believe this to be true.

Why is it, every night as I walk home, that of all the things in my room, it’s always the tiniest, thinnest object—the razor blade—that comes to mind as if I have clairvoyant vision? You said you don’t understand, and neither do I—but it’s all connected somehow.

When any tree’s flowers reach their peak, they begin to spread a mysterious aura in the air around them. Like a perfectly spun top that appears still, or like a skilled musical performance that carries a certain hallucination, it’s the glow of reproductive energy in full bloom. This vibrant, almost supernatural beauty leaves an impact on the heart.

But what filled me with deep gloom yesterday and the day before was precisely that beauty. It felt too surreal to believe. Instead of being uplifted, I became anxious, melancholic, and felt an overwhelming emptiness. Now, at last, I understand why.

Imagine for a moment—beneath every cherry tree in full bloom, there’s a corpse buried. A rotting corpse, like that of a horse, or a dog, or a cat, and even humans. The bodies decay, maggots squirming, releasing an unbearable stench. Yet, they ooze a crystalline liquid. The roots of the cherry trees, greedy like octopus tentacles, wrap around the corpses, with tendrils like the feeding filaments of sea anemones, absorbing that liquid.

Can you picture it now? What creates those petals, what forms those stamens? I can almost see the crystalline liquid, drawn up through the fine roots, quietly flowing in procession, dreamlike, through the plant’s vascular system.

—Why do you look so troubled? Isn’t it a beautiful vision? I’ve finally found clarity, finally been able to truly gaze at the cherry blossoms. I’m free from the unease that had plagued me just yesterday, the day before, free from the mystery that haunted me.

A few days ago, I went down to the gorge, stepping from stone to stone. Through the mist of the water spray, I could see from all sides the delicate mayflies emerging like Aphrodite, rising toward the sky above the stream. As you know, they are there to perform their beautiful mating dance. After walking for a while, I came across something strange. It was in a small pool left behind in the dry riverbed, where the stream had receded. The surface was covered with a rainbow-like sheen, as if oil had been spilled. Do you know what it was? It was the countless bodies of mayflies, so numerous they were beyond counting. Their overlapping wings covered the entire surface of the water, shimmering in the light with that oil-like iridescence. It was their graveyard, where they had perished after laying their eggs.

When I saw it, I felt as though something struck my chest. I experienced a cruel joy, like that of a deranged voyeur savoring the sight of corpses in a cemetery.

Nothing in this gorge brings me any joy. Not the warblers, not the tits, not even the fresh buds on the trees that glow in the white sunlight, veiled in blue mist. These things are nothing more than vague, blurred impressions to me. What I need is tragedy. It is only through that balance that my impressions become clear. My heart is parched, like a demon’s thirst for melancholy. Only when my sense of sorrow reaches its peak does my mind find peace.

—You’re wiping under your arms, aren’t you? Is cold sweat running down your sides? It’s the same for me. There’s no reason to find it unpleasant. Imagine it’s as sticky as semen. That’s how we will complete our melancholy.

Ah, beneath the cherry trees, there are corpses buried!