Memory is a blurred window.
Within, the lamplight is clear and mellow,
each shape familiar: but beyond the pane
there is a world of swirling mist and rain.
Memory is a blurred window.
And gazing out into the slanting glow
I wonder now if I will ever know
what it was I saw so clearly way back then
and now am trying so hard to see again.
It was a scene so simple and so plain:
I thought it was god sitting in the rain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem