Wandering through,
the sorrow of the dark night,
what I saw was
a stretch of gray ripples.
Sighing amid
the treetops at dawn,
what I glimpsed was
the first sight of sunlight.
In the noon of
youth, melancholy,
I pondered:
perhaps life held more than one possibility.
Youthful bloom
was not the baptism of time.
Hesitation
was not a reproach against the years.
Tender warmth
was more than just words.
It was simply a hope:
that the years would flow like a song,
that youth would have no regrets,
that we would make the most of our prime—
nothing more.
Life—
who cared about the strange looks of others?
Life
was lived for oneself alone.
Perhaps what was lost today
was being stored up
for tomorrow's loss to be found again.
I only hoped
the future would remain as before,
the bright moon shining like light,
still there,
along the road ahead,
following like a shadow.
The author's note