I will sigh from the same sorrow tomorrow.
And who can I blame?
The conductor in my train’s narrow corridor
Who calls my city’s name?
Scenery of swamp and river,
Blur of buildings outside a window,
Static suburban history
Of parking lots and industry
That always looks the same?
Are there passengers I can blame?
Those who sit in their seats half asleep,
Who will never know my name?
Who will push in selfishly for seats tomorrow?
Or should I look elsewhere for my sorrow,
A sorrow that truly makes me sigh?
Perhaps it is the beautiful sky
In various hues. Nature is always true
And Nature always reminds me of you.
Perhaps Nature is to blame. She is always the same.
Love? Which, because of its sorrow, makes me feel love is true,
Is this not happy? I do not have you, and yet to me, our love is true
Because of sorrow yesterday, today and tomorrow,
A sorrow always the same—
Since you don’t hold my hand and lean over to me and whisper my name.
Pitiful joy! Pitiful truth! Pitiful sorrow! Pitiful life! All the same.
The same sorrow sighing tomorrow.
Sorrow of millions.
And who can I blame?
