Kibou (Hope)

May Rain. Tears.

What does it mean to control? Rain.

Nuclear Power, Tears—is your country controlling them?

Has the human race seen the true face of nuclear power?

Rain.

Uncontrollable.

To control. You are remarkably you. Nobody is the one you are. You being you. Tenderly, can we sustain it? Aftershock. I love you because you are you, and yet—

More swiftly, more nimbly than anyone, you continue as you. That is the you I love. Aftershock. You, dearest you. Nothing follows dearest but you. After the tsunami. Whereabouts unknown. Over ten thousand people.

“Fukushima Unit 1, out of control.” Have we reached the ultimate moment?

The battle for control, the front line. “Let’s believe!” Aftershock.

Rain. If only we could live in modesty. And yet—

What are you going to do tomorrow? I’ll live tomorrow like I did today. Aftershock.

What are you going to do tomorrow? I’ll hold on tomorrow like I did today. Aftershock.

Radiation rains. The night is so quiet, so serene.

I want to protect my family.

I can’t control my tears.

I believed in “certainty”—the “certainty” of the world, the everyday, and nuclear power.

But now, the “certainty” of what? The certainty of “nothing certain”?

The certainty that nothing is certain, negated by the certainty that . . . negated by the certainty that . . . negated by the certainty that . . . negated by the certainty that . . . negated by the certainty that . . . negated by the certainty that . . .

The certainty of nuclear power, the certainty of hometown, the certainty of Fukushima, the certainty of Japan, the certainty of love, the certainty of money, the certainty of you, the certainty of life, the certainty of words, the certainty of the certain.

Certain nuclear power, certain hometown, certain Fukushima, certain Japan, certain love, certain money, certain you, certain life, certain words―the certainty of the certain.

All we can believe in is certainty. If we can’t, the earth, the mighty rivers, the oceans, won’t believe in us. Radioactive rain. We feel it . . . how?

Certainly we shall live.

We were born here. If we don’t believe in Fukushima, who else will?

Now is the time to believe in belief.

You should not discard your hometown.

The vast blue sky. The Abukuma River. Majestic Mt. Adatara. The Aizu flag. The glittering of the Pacific Ocean.

Do not discard Fukushima.

Make it your home to the end.

No one is here Fukushima a rainy night in the quiet our souls sleep in the wet darkness

No one is here Fukushima quiet rain and morning glow the rain lets up

The quiet “quiet” enclosed in light birth cry loud robust a muscular morning

The hands of a new father hold up his newborn baby right now

Eyes wide open Fukushima’s child

Crying no tears,

the child walked the rainy night,

This is your first dawn.

Thank you for being born.

There is no night that doesn’t find the dawn

(trans. Koichiro Yamauchi and Steve Redford)

Kanashimi and Kibou are performance pieces by Ryoichi Wago, taken from his serial poems, Pebbles of Poetry and Silent Salute of Poetry.

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