| 来 る よ う だ |
め ぐ り く る ら し ： め ぐ っ て |
出 来 事 |
む か し 見 し 世 ： 昔 経 験 し た |
お ぼ ろ に も ： か す か に |
少 年 の 日 は 楽 し か っ た の か ？ |
あ の 頃 の 思 い 出 |
め ぐ っ て く る |
青 空 に 身 を お ど ら せ る |
は た は た と 音 を た て |
あ れ は 昔 み た 鯉 の ぼ り |
薫 風 が 吹 き わ た る |
五 月 晴 れ の 空 を |
As I've written repeatedly, my childhood
was far from being a happy one.
But time seems to have cleansed my history
and my old memories come
back from time to time with a dearing connotation.
I have mixed feelings about this. Have I
grown matured or have I simply aged?
I've always resisted to be matured as if maturity were a venom for me.
When I got old enough to realize how immatured
I was, I naturally felt embarrassed.
Still, if I feel I'm as rational as
many of my friends, it would be frightening
indeed.