November in Okayama
November in Okayama,
It rains 'zaza', like in London.
Under your purple umbrella
Your palm on my back, my hand on
Your hip-bone as if it's touching
A puppy shivering with cold.
So pure a love poured into such
Impure a vessel, I daren't hold
It within me, let alone drink,
So uncensored was its source.
And when a carhorn hoots, I think
It's the red demon of remorse.