Hearing the Summer Rain in Nagasaki

 

In the hush of twilight,  

hearing the summer rain in Nagasaki  

soft as a lover's breath,  

it taps on rooftops like a gentle heartbeat, 

a symphony of droplets, each one 

a memory, each splash a promise.

 

We rowed the spirit boats,  

our laughter mingling with the mist 

on silken water. 

A dance of light and shadows,  

as the current carried us  

towards youth’s horizon.

The world’s unfurling like a scroll,  

each stroke a testament  

to first love’s feel.

 

A sudden wild geese flight,  

their calls bewitching in the fading sky,  

a song of freedom and of longing,  

wings beating like the hearts  

that know the thrill of venture,  

the joy of being alive,  

as they chart their course  

through the tapestry of clouds.

 

Who knows the wondrous nature  

of a flower’s mind, how 

it paints its thoughts in unseen colours,  

how it feels the sun, sips the rain,  

and reaches for the stars  

in steady faith,  

with lessons still to bloom  

against the odds?

 

The snow now melts,  

reveals the earth beneath,  

all soft and tender,  

as if it too remembers 

the stories etched in soil,  

laughter of children,  

whispers of lovers,  

the pulse of life,  

an edifice of 80 years  

still standing tall,  

a monument to the endurance  

of the human spirit.

 

Late-blooming cherry trees,  

unfurl their petals and remind 

that beauty knows no clock,  

that time is both, transient and eternal,  

each blossom, just a glimpse  

of what once was, could be,  

what will remain.

 

In misty old age now, eternal cycles

of come and go  

in ebb and flow of life,  

while seasons turn like pages,  

moments as brushstrokes,  

painting the heart-canvas  

with light and shadows 

rowing, rowing, rowing

in spirit boats of memory 

across the timely waters.