In the room at dusk

 In the room at dusk

A story about a man ,
Getting close to the age of having nothing except thinking.
The sky,
Reflected by the setting sun,
Now seen,
From the window frame.
A golden light there.
He begins to think ,
At the time when Summer is over.
 
Now thinking of how to release something.
After being released, then how to fill in.
At first, turn or loosen it being fastened firmly.

There is something important besides the procedure.
It calls the sense of time.
Feels like getting what it is,
Immediately.
But, my hands cannot function properly.
How come?

Power and breathing.
Eyes focused on from the garden to outdoors,
Where purple flowers and wild peonies are blooming.
The head of a flower is swaying.
The man who saw one piece of a petal falling down.

"Fed up with everything.",
He said to himself,
In an almost inaudible voice. 
It's fading away.
Near his hands,
Something fastened,
To be released.

The above-mentioned is just a prelude of this story.
After being released,
The edge should be raised.
After being fastened,
It should be kept for a long time.
How could it be done?

The other day,
The man, holding up an umbrella,
Walking on the path along the beach.
Regretting to have already come out on foot.
Rain and wind became stronger.
How come in this case?

What I have to fasten,
Is an umbrella.
At first fasten my wrist,
And then, turn my feelings toward where?
Toward my hands rather than feet.
Noticed clearly the rain shower falling heavily.

A car came,
With head lights on.
Holding up and waving the umbrella,
Let me enter it.
When the door was opened,
One young girl was holding the handle.
"What a terrible day it is!"

 "I have a wife and a child.",
 The man said.
 "And a job, too.
 I happened to encounter you here."
 "The sea is stormy, isn't it?"

This has been passed through.
"Everything has been passed through",
 Murmuring to himself, and fastened it on his memory.
"That is a lever."
 The man who let that lever slip down near his hands.

Well, this man opened the white paper,
In the room at dusk,
Fed up with thinking,
And drew pictures of big plus and minus screws.
Suddenly it became dark in the room,
And nobody knows what is fastened by drawn screws.

 Dusk stays.
 In my room where my wife and child are away,
 Only the sound of tearing silk,
 Creeping on my skin.