In spring, mist rises. Just one song at wits end.
Like a flower, I wait impatiently, hoping to hear your sound once again.
Smoke rises from the rain and before long we’re in a waking dream.
Oh, little bud, how you quiver… though I know not your author’s name.
A faint smell lingers… the shadows dance…
Twilight lies in days past, as I’m drawn in.
For a thousand years, I’ve searched for a flower that blooms in pale crimson.
The sort of illusion that could dye this nameless, secret forest.
But if it won’t bloom, I’ll take this song as a parting gift.
A faint prayer that allows me to reel in each thread connecting the birds… the wind… the moon…
At night, the clouds don’t clear. Just one moon growing dim.
Like a flower with falling petals, it sheds overflowing light.
It’s a shame the moon hides itself, passing through the night.
Taking it to be a spring dream, I fall deeply in love.
Crossing over thousands of fields, the wind blows, as if wandering.
Oh, the sorrow of seeing it pass through this forest that’s devoid of the scent of falling flowers.
If unable to sing, use this song as your perch, dear birds. Stay by my side tonight.
These layered voices will ride gently upon the wind to the far-off winter where you reside.
For a thousand years, I’ve searched for a flower that blooms in pale crimson.
The sort of illusion that could dye this nameless, secret forest.
But if it won’t bloom, I’ll take this song as a parting gift.
A faint prayer that allows me to reel in each thread connecting the birds… the wind… the moon…
To the far-off place where you remain.