Go, tell the others
on campus, in the clubroom,
that at Comiket -
despite all blistering suns -
the flowers of dreams yet bloom.

In just this one day,
I experienced so much!
So how is it, then,
That the weeks and months before
remain dim and forgotten?

This day in the line,
fighting and laughing with friends,
the world forgotten,
I must not later forget
when I am sorting all my goods.

Sure that none would
ever read his book again
he still wrote those notes,
sure that those thoughts were worth thought
and would find a home some day.

When I look upon
the bales of abandoned books,
I am saddened: by
an enthusiastic pen,
drawing for so many nights.

Where the otaku
have all vanished from the stairs
and its rope linings,
now stars pass the long night and
papers rustle in the breeze.


They argue harshly -
but then, does ink hate paper?
or paper the ink?

Do not be misled!
Their books are camouflage for
the red strings of fate
that they have shyly forged
over the years, side by side.

And with what shall I
compare us?
              A boy walking
through the warm spring night,
as he leaves his friends, knowing
just how few partings remain.

Loneliness - unknown
until a chill pine wind blows;
I shiver alone.

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