In early summer, twenty years ago, Rain put out the faint glow of fireflies You had once shown me in your arms.
Why did you scold me for weeping then? You know, I might be expecting That transience of the night would take me to Our better older days.
While you are irritating with the slow and aching moments, Not informed of the seriousness of your body, What is your eldest son that is inspired by your death bed and About to escape from his and your pain by writing something?
Now mocked bitterly is the complacent conviction, 'my father will live longer than I, for he's better.'
At my age, thirty You used to watch and hold your seeming delight, How could I encourage you? I must have been smiling 'May you accept your fate most easefully!'
I've been a bad boy, evil and cruel, Complaining to myself you don't and can't realize me, Never even tried to sympathize you.
Don't forgive me, Father. Tell me you've found no hope or pride in me. Only feebleness is my inheritance from you. I am cursing my birthday, my drifting thirty years.
If only I could give my life to you! You aren't at all tired of life. It's you, Father, Who have much better reason to live on.