Nagase Kiyoko / 永瀬清子 – Ⅳ

You, Who Come Toward Dawn 

 

 

 

You, who come toward dawn,

you, who come to my place, quietly, quietly,

from the direction of the voice of a turtle dove,

life’s peaks and chasms blue, incomparably harsh,

I have now aged

and like other old people

miss my youthful days thousands of times.

 

That moment I was about to run away.

A small basket in hand,

my feet trembled in midair.

Not knowing where I was going,

I only counted on my heart in love.

Youth—it was pain.

 

That moment you should have come.

That moment you did not come.

How I waited for you—

Should I have said this to a roadside willow?

Should I have asked a small swirl of blowing wind?

 

Your ears, far too distant,

like a train whistling beyond the color of madder,

passed and left.

 

All past now.

If you come now, you won’t make up for it.

My whole life has passed, and yet,

you, who come toward dawn,

you, who come toward me, quietly, quietly,

from the direction of the voice of a turtle dove,

you, who come without footfalls, to do what,

you, who come only to make my tears flow.