Poem of Night Cherry Blossoms

Countless lights swaying quietly on the night water's surface.
I used to think cherry blossoms were flowers of the day.

But in truth, that is not the case.
When night falls, these flowers become a mirror reflecting the city's memories.
The cherry blossoms blooming on both banks of the river

seem as if they have known for hundreds of years
that people would gather here.
Even in the Edo period,

surely someone was gazing at this water.
Samurai, townspeople,

those who were in love,
and those who were parting ways.
People change,

clothes and language change,
and even the shape of the country changes.
Yet spring alone

visits every year just the same.
The small boats floating on the river

each carry a different life.
Someone is laughing,

someone is taking pictures,
and someone is quietly watching the scenery.
But the cherry blossoms do not distinguish between anyone.

To those who have succeeded,

to those who are lost,
and to those who are just managing to live through today,
they let their petals fall in the same way.

Tokyo Tower shines in the distance,

and the city does not yet sleep.
In every single light of the buildings,

there is someone's story.
Someone chased by work.

Someone chasing a dream.
Someone trying to start over again.
This river

has quietly watched all of them.
A single petal

falls onto the water's surface.
It is only for an instant,

and then it vanishes into the current.
Human life

is a little like that.
It seems long,

but looking back, it is just an instant.
That is precisely why

this night scenery is beautiful.
Because it is not eternal.

Cherry blossoms scatter quickly.

Spring ends quickly.
But within that short time,

people laugh,
talk,
and remember someone.
The river continues to flow quietly.

Even after the cherry blossoms have scattered,

even when summer comes,
and even when winter comes.
And then, the next spring,

flowers will bloom in the same place.
At that time,

the people who come here will have changed again.
Even so, the cherry blossoms

will say nothing,
just blooming as they are.
The night river,

today as well, quietly
carries the time of humanity.