お空の洗濯

The Laundry of the Sky

Thus spoke the washing clouds, and the sky and sea nodded in quiet agreement.

Soft as spun silk, the clouds stretched wide, covering the sky from end to end.

Through gaps between them, a broom of morning light swept down, brushing the earth clean.

“So as not to sully the blue,”

the clouds whispered, taking in impurities like filters,

their hues deepening with what they bore.

And when they became heavy and dim,

the sky poured its shower upon them—

rinsing their filters clean,

letting the rain fall gently to the ground.

That gentle rain washed the leaves and flowers,

cleansing them with tender care.

Come midnight, moonlight purifies the sky.

The dirt falls from the filters, and with it, from the earth.

The raindrops link hands, fall in line,

and march together as streams,

flowing into the river.

The river makes for the sea.

One by one, the drops bathe and cleanse themselves,

drying off with the wind’s soft towel

before returning to the sky once more.

The sea, meanwhile, gathers the grime,

kneads it into black peat—tap, tap—layer upon layer.

When enough has formed, it’s cast into Earth’s furnace on the deep ocean floor,

where it burns to pure white ash,

falling quietly into the deep.

Each time that pure ash settles,

the Earth turns slowly, gently,

and smiles in its turning.

The freshly washed clouds are gathered by the blue sky,

wrung out and hung to dry.

Bathed in sunlight, dried by warm air,

they puff up again, fluffy and bright.

In the rainy season and in winter, laundry is abundant,

so the clouds grow heavy and gray for longer.

Spring and summer bring the wardrobe change,

and once all is washed, the sun bestows warmth upon the land,

watching with a glowing gaze.

Come autumn, it gazes fondly upon the ripening harvest,

its cheeks tinted with the morning and evening glow—

and grants a fleeting happiness to all things in the world.

Let us not disrupt, nor be disrupted.

Let us take one another’s hands, step by step,

and carry on this gentle rhythm together.

Laundry is delicate, and the clouds are like silk.

Once stained, they cannot be rewoven.

If we rush ever forward without a backward glance,

the threads of the seam may snap—

one by one—

and the cloth will fall at our feet,

then into the abyss.

That abyss is deep, and dark.

A pit with no return,

a dreadful hole in the vastness of space—

a black hole, ready to swallow all.

Before we reach that moment,

let us pause.

Let us look back, and see.