To you, I've come out to the night sea and I'm retying my shoelaces. The wind is strong, and even with my head bowed, the sound of the waves brushes over my whole body. Even if I call your name like this, you won't hear. Still, tying my laces in a double knot, I hold close the wish to call it once more. I walk on sand the waves wash up over and erase. With every step, the place I left disappears a little. Have you, too, ever given someone's name to the wind, the way I do.
An old sandal, just one, seen in the night park, set neatly under a bench with its strap undone. Under the starlight, it looked as if a little of the road it had walked still remained.