$PI The train passes through dusk, sweeping over clusters of parasol tree shadows,

I don't need to inquire about your current name and whereabouts.
No need to ask if time has been gentle to you.
I am just following the old path, heading to a promise made back then, to see the wind of those years, the alley of those years, the street corner where parasol catkins drifted.
It turns out I was not searching for the you of the past nor the you of the present,
But for that unreturnable time when we were wrapped together in sunlight.
When the wind rises again, fallen leaves cover the way back,
I gently wave my hand, like saying goodbye to myself long, long ago,
And also saying goodbye to you standing under the parasol tree.
No need to meet again; when we meet, the years will have already decided.