Why
did he choose to come to my door, the wandering youth, when the day
dawned?
As
I come in and out I pass by him every time, and my eyes are caught by
his face.
I
know not if I should speak to him or keep silent. Why did he choose to
come to my door.
The
cloudy nights in July are dark; the sky is soft blue in the autumn; the
spring days are restless with the south wind.
He
weaves his songs with fresh tunes every time.
I
turn from my work and my eyes fill with the mist. Why did he choose to
come my door?