[Sarumi] Love Poem /Chap 1/by 白云诗 (Eng. Ver. )
在lo上我用国语好好说话#
上图是英化许可
原作 @白云诗
原作Chapter1 走这
就是一个渣 爱惨了这篇文所以想试图英化呀w
才翻了一章就真的很累很累很累很累（特别是诗歌）
再加上其实自己英语也不是很好啦 如果有同好一定要来哦#
Chapter 1 Charming Photos
They were barely friends then. They only dedicated to the communication of their poems and pictures.(zz手误，感谢 @sanaaaaaaaa gn帮忙捉虫）
Well, they were barely friends then.
Before Fushimi knew Yata, he didn’t write deliberately. It’s too troublesome to write down anything, or to draw. However, his creativity never stopped him from composing.
Ultimately, he chose to observe the world with a camera.
He wasn’t an expert in expressing what he was really thinking about, which led to his words contrary to his thoughts.
Poets always state that people without voice will be compensated with sort of peculiar senses.
And Fushimi Saruhiko exactly had.
His shots were often weird but comely, containing panicking elegance and coldness.
He took plentiful beauteous photos, but these pictures turned out to be so pale after he had read through those poems.
Similarly, his life without Yata was meaningless like deserted films.
Let’s rewind the tape to the point where his life started—ironically, he called that point ‘where his life started’.
The dean of Art department took great pains to have a heart-to-heart talk with him when he first entered the university.
‘Fushimi, you are indeed talented in art, why don’t you consider about changing a major?’
Oh well, he liked computer science so.
The dean might be quite used to his distant way of communicating. He smiled and only gave a piece of suggestion, ‘It doesn’t matter. Just go to the Art Corner in the school and look around. Feel it, and I bet you’ll like it.’
Fushimi didn’t take all the fucking things the dean said seriously. But he wanted to compose and to shot. His impulses raised all the day, pushing him to click everywhere, recording another facet of the world.
Blue.
Solitary.
He pictured photo after another everywhere inside school as well as places around, until he couldn’t shot the next any more. He was in his teens, disagreeable and touchy-feely. The more the dean recommended the Art Corner, the less he desired to have a look.
Nevertheless, he didn’t want to spend 4 hours on the tram only to capture the unique scenery everyday.
‘I went there only to APPROACH the Corner, and I will never step in the corner.’ He promised him self.
Fushimi, seemed to be stealthy and tricky, thought to himself while circling the garden which was specially open for the art students.
Finally he realized that he was not so familiar with the school as he believed.
Fushimi Saruhiko, a 19-year-old freshman, lost his way on a artistic arid path.
But the point was that, he came across a broken wall when he was trying to figure out his way.
And there was a poem on the wall.
He could hardly remember what it was about. Time passes by, and he could only recall his pulsation when he took a glance at the poem in the sunset, solemn and stirring.
It was written to eulogize over the freedom of the setting sun, burning the world like fiery flame. The words were simple, but it contained sort of gorgeousness, integrating with his simpleness.
That was what he was constantly looking for, the dizzy enthusiasm burning from the strokes and words and sentences.
The writer ended the poem in a specific way.
‘…There must be a lonely lover,
Struggling in a certain corner,
Waiting for me,
A comer.’
He signed an English name in the bottom right.
‘MISAKI’.
Fushimi couldn’t control himself to shoot continuously when he was looking at the words on the wall, exactly as he couldn’t control himself to make love in the days after.
During the gap, he leant to touch the strokes. They rustled and the white powder followed, like the torso of a lover, trembling under his touch.
He filled his SD card with the photos of the poems that day.
In the days after, he made a pilgrimage every day in front of the wall. He didn’t expect to meet the poet though. He was only following his instinct to go there.
Every day, he discovered a brand new poem. Sometimes it was extolling the spring rain, other time it was praising the moonlit night. The matters were too vulgar to be depicted as poetry, but when it came to the white chalk, it was brimmed with sentiment.
He meticulously shot illustrations for every poem, and juxtaposed them with the photos of the poem. He even created an account of the blog for them, though he never even attempted.
MISAKI. It was the name of the blog.
For suitable illustrations, he often stayed up for all night or wandered around all day to look for the bright moonlight or the withering flower in the rain. He couldn’t really tell why, but he believed it to be natural. Just like people would throw amorous glances to those charming features.
What an interesting girl.
Fushimi had the desire to see the girl who wrote the poems, but he feared as well.
What if she was ugly? Would his first love be with such a girl who….
The stuff just flashed upon him in class, and he really pitied himself for a moment.
Wait, what the fuck is that!
His inner entanglement was suddenly interrupted by the chalk thrown by the wrathful professor. In the laughter of the class, he turned his face to the window and said to himself,
‘…A comer.’
How fabulous.
Yata saw from his friend’s phone that his scrawls on the walls were shot as works of art.
He felt ashamed, but also joyful and proud.
It was complex, however, that he enjoyed being appreciated while complaining the impoliteness of the unknown blogger, who used His name to exhibit His poems.
Especially he or she was using the name that he hated the most, MISAKI.
He wasn’t even realizing that he was the one who wrote the name.
Yata tried hard to pretend nothing had happened but failed. The blogger shot the scrawls every day together with illustrations, immaculately, ceaselessly, like he was taking ecstasy or something. He was indeed an expert in photographing, only cutting out Yata’s favorite lines, while blurring his unsatisfying ones.
The bosom feeling irritated Yata. He tried to come across the photographer near the wall, but it never happened.
Finally, he made up his mind to spend a whole day to meet with the sensuous blogger, who always endowed his pale lines the most colorful and amorous atmosphere.
He wiped everything on the wall and expected him until sunset.
‘The setting in the world,
Was light reflected of dawn,
The break of lust and desire.
There must be a lonely lover,
Struggling in a certain corner,
Waiting for me,
A comer.’
The photographer was slow in coming in the background of the setting sun.
Yata felt too ashamed to admit that he fell asleep when waiting. When he regained his consciousness, the peeper was standing in front of him with a peculiar facial expression.
The sunset was blazing in his eyes regardless of his glasses.
Yata suddenly recognized the similarity between the photographer and him at that moment, though they appeared to be such different people.
‘Is that you who take those photos?’ Yata stood up and asked bashfully. The red flush and the fever on his cheeks might get themselves from the burning sunset.
Fushimi nodded and smiled, ‘So why didn’t you write them today?’
‘Waiting for you.’ Yata answered him without hesistation.
They smiled at each other, a little bit ashamedly but tacitly, like gamesters who cheated but exposed each other at the same time.
A poet said that people may fall in love due to their similarity.
So, do you believe it or not?
Fushimi squated in a hunting pose, facing the tiny little poet, and raised his camera piously.
‘Well, should we start now?’
‘My MISAKI.’
How imitate. How appropriate.
Yata didn’t have time to feel annoyed or protest against his words, so he continued on with his flush and turned his head towards the sun.
‘Don’t call me like that.’
‘Emm.’
Fushimi spoke in inadvertence because he didn’t even know he was talking. His heart was full of the desire to fill his camera, like the ecstasy when being refreshed after a long drought.
The poet, in his lens, booted the small stone and started his composition on the wall skillfully.
And he wrote the poem which Fushimi first met at the wall.
‘The setting in the world,
Was light reflected of dawn,
The break of lust and desire.
There must be a lonely lover,
Struggling in a certain corner,
Waiting for me,
A comer.
Finally I would go for her,
Though the sunset would burn,
In flames,
My life ended with no term.’
Yata turned his back on Fushimi, doodling on the wall with his white chalk with deliberation and calmness.
The courtesan expressed her body in a proud manner to her client, with a sense of tameness as well.
His mind and character settled his pride and mildness, in which naivety mixed with sensuousness.
Then he looked back and shone brilliantly towards Fushimi with the bloody sunset around him.
Fushimi believed his real life started from this moment, though he told himself again and again that he was only a man, or to be more precisely, a scrawling bard.
But he couldn’t even resist or deny the franticness and amor in mood.