SPRING

　　No matter how oppressive is the hand of fate,

　　is human deceit,

　　no matter how deeply they furrow¹ our brows,

　　wound our hearts,

　　no matter how severe are the trials

　　to which we daily must succumb²,

　　what can resist the breath of

　　and that first encounter with spring！

　　……

　　Spring does not know us,

　　us, our grief, our malice³ ……

　　Her gaze shines with immortality⁴.

　　There's not a wrinkle on her brow.

　　She obeys her own laws.

　　At the appropriate time she flies down,

　　bright, blissfully indifferent,

　　as befits a goddess.

　　……

　　She scatters⁵ blossoms on the earth.

　　She is fresh, like the first spring.

　　Was there another before？

　　She doesn't need to know.

　　The sky is cloud-covered.

　　These clouds are her own, leaving not a trace

　　of the extinct life of former springs.

　　……

　　Roses do not sign about the past,

　　nor do nightingales sing it.

　　Dawn does not shed tears

　　of fragrance⁶ for the past,

　　and terror of the ineluctable end

　　does not flow from trees and branches.

　　Their life, like the boundless⁷ ocean,

　　is entirely⁸ poured into the present.

　　……

　　All the game, the sacrifice of individual life！

　　Come, throw off the deceit of feelings

　　and throw yourself lustily, omnipotently⁹

　　into this life-creating ocean！

　　Come on, in its ethereal stream

　　wash your suffering breast

　　and in this divinely all-peaceful life

　　for just one moment be a guest！