Chūya Nakahara
Going, Never to Return
Translated from Japanese by Jeffrey Angles
—Kyoto—
I was at the end of the world. The sunlight poured down, warm, the flowers trembled in the breeze.
All day the dust on the wooden bridge was silent, all day the mailbox shone red, while a baby carriage with a pinwheel sat still on the street.
No residents, no children on the street, no one with whom I bore any connection, my only task was to gaze at the color of the sky above the weathervanes from time to time.
Despite that, I was not bored, there was honey in the air, nothing material, but just right for day-to-day consumption.
I tried smoking a cigarette just to enjoy its flavor. I could only smoke outside.
The only belonging that was dear to me was a single towel, no pillow, much less any bedding, yes, I had a toothbrush, but the only book I owned was full of blank pages, nothing written, only there for me to occasionally pick up and enjoy its weight in my hands.
Women attracted me, but I never once thought about going to be with them. Just dreaming was enough.
Something hard to describe egged me on. Though I had no purpose, my heart pounded, hopeful, in my chest.
In the woods was one of the strangest parks in the world: women, children, men promenading with unsettling smiles, speaking in a language I could not comprehend, displaying expressions I could not fathom.
In the sky, a spider web glistened, shining silver.