Why did he choose to come to my
door, the wandering youth, when the
day dawned?
 As I come in and out I pass by him
every time, and my eyes are caught by 
his face.
 I know not if I should speak to him
or keep silent. Why did he choose to 
come to my door?
 The cloudy nights in July are dark;
the sky is soft blue in the autumn; the
spring days are restless with the south
wind.
 He weaves his songs with fresh
tunes every time.
 I turn from my work and my eyes
fill with the mist. Why did he choose 
to come to my door?