In time, a high wall rises, // a fortress is built,
Only to resist the erosion of time, // the invasion of memories,
Until opening that door weathered by wind, // looking inside,
There is nothing, no people // or things left behind.

In the washing of sunset, // returning to the small town once passed by,
That noodle shop, steam still rising // from the steel pot,
A warm spring hiding underground, // hearing the sound of moving footsteps,
I pull open the metal shutter door, // the pale yellow wallpaper curls in time.
The shop owner, wearing white, // washing a nearly transparent chef's hat,
Rising from a bamboo-woven chair, // quickly walking over from across the street.
She tells me, they're no longer in business, // perhaps come back next time.

I stand at the shop entrance, // looking at the clock on the wall,
Pointing to five in the afternoon. Sunlight // through the leaves like strung pearls,
Flickering with the yellow-green light of fireflies, // I carry my luggage,
Follow the stone path, // heading to the train station at the end of the main road.
There is only a high wall, // white paint with yellow bricks behind,
A green iron train waiting for me, // for the only tourist in time.