Today, I went for a walk.

I praised nature over and over again.

Beautiful, truly beautiful.

 

On my way back home, I took the train and crossed the bridge.

As I crossed it, I saw the steeple, so near, yet so far

covered in the dust and blood,

and as I looked at the traces of light falling and soaking before it, I began to remember.

 

That dreadful August, when I strangely longed to take a walk.

The flying guitar.

The guitar floated slowly, so slowly,

like the longest long take scene I’ve ever seen.

I praised the guitar over and over again.

Beautiful, truly beautiful.

 

How would it be like to look at the afterimage of a beach that disappeared beneath because of the rising water.

Strangely, I only wanted to be quiet.

 

I was really drunk…

I was really drunk…

 

The unknown words fell from me fell into the world, why?

If I were to be born again,

I would be born upon that great river bridge

made from the traces of the beach,

from the tears she shed.

On that long bridge, I would be quiet.

 

I was drunk and threw my guitar…

I was drunk and threw my guitar…

The guitar floats so slowly,

it would be looked like a UFO.

 

Isn’t all of this magnificent?

I heard I got soaked to the bone in a really heavy rain yesterday,

and from the brim of the low green hat, rainwater dripped steadily, drop by drop.

 

They say water always flows to the lowest place?

Then maybe we could gather those drops and make a great lake.

In such a moment, these things wouldn’t even feel embarrassing.

 

In that dreadful August,

I was truly, deeply ashamed.

Now that I think about it, even the questions I asked her were also wrong.

I should have given an answer, not a question.

She’s always been better at accepting answer than question.

 

This Sunday breeze feels so wonderful.

I welcome this brisk, born from reflection.

When I said I would live for her, her eyes were so beautiful.

How much regret must have been contained in the tears

grow of her pain?