Dreams of old Japan

Sometimes I feel like I see through your eyes

Wandering the streets of post-war Japan

Through your fears, your pain, your grief, I taste

your wet cigarettes on a rainy day

I want to get drunk in a bamboo grove

I want to write books about Marxist thoughts

I want to read letters from Kazuko

I want to die in a beautiful way

Alas, I wake up to reality

My connection seems to be but a dream

But in my soul your torment lives on

You inspire me to leave something behind

And if my own words are left on my grave 

No one shall ever forget me again