The Post

The Bay of Tsunu in the sea of Iwami has no fine beaches and is not considered beautiful. 

Perhaps it is not, but we used to walk by the sea of the whale fishers over the rocky shingle of Watazu, where the wind blows the green jeweled seaweed like wings quivering in the morning, and the waves rock the kelp beds like wings quivering in the evening. Just as the sea tangle sways and floats at one with the waves, so my girl clung to me as she lay by my side.

Now I have left her, to fade like the hoarfrost.

I looked back ten thousand times at every turn of the road. Our village fell away, farther and farther away. The mountains rose between us, steeper and steeper. I know she thinks of me, far off, and wilts with longing, like summer grass.

Maybe if the mountains would bow down I could see her again, standing in our doorway.


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