U

Masatsura

He looks back
down the green tree-lined path—the inn
at Sakurai is lit up for evening.
 

He wants to respect his father's orders—
to return to his hometown—but Masatsura
trudges off hesitantly on his horse.
 

He hears a storm brewing on the peaks,
tomorrow's battle is drawing near—
alarm bells ringing, battle drums roaring—
look, look, over there! See the tassels
of the Kikusui Flag!
Five hundred cavaliers, prepared for death,
bridles lined up in gallant array.
 

'Alas, dear father, is this your final hour?
I, Masatsura, shall not let you down!'
He tries to follow after—but the saddled vision
vanishes like a fleeting dream.
The reins are wet in the early summer rain—
don't cry for me, O cloud-dwelling cuckoo.
 

If you will make me suffer

If you will make me suffer
Best that I want nothing anymore
I just want to be happy
To always live in love like this
 

If you will make me suffer
Will hurt my heart
It is better to leave it like this
I will look for another darling
 

Because I want to give my heart
With my true love
And sincere
 

I want a love so clear
As the green and blue of the sea
I want a love so pure
Who does not take advantage of me
 

I want a love so great
To make me happy
I want to be always smiling
I want to see happiness
 

I want a love so clear
As an April morning
I want a love so good
Who does not take advantage of me
 

I want a love so great
To make me happy
I want to be always smiling
I want to see happiness
 

And if you are not certain
Of finding a future
It is better not
 

You do not think about me anymore
Do not follow me around
If you will make me, If you will make me
If you will make me suffer
 

Saint Francis

Look at Saint Francis on his journey
Barefoot, the poor little man.
He sleeps at night by the mill
And shares his bread with the farmer.
Look at Saint Francis, walking so cheerfully,
With nothing at all in his bundle.
He greets the wind: 'Good morning, friend,'
And tells the fire: 'You’re my brother.'
Look at Saint Francis on his journey,
Carrying little Jesus in his arms.
He invents games for the Child
And tells stories to the little bird.
Look at Saint Francis on his journey.
 

Look at Saint Francis on his journey
Barefoot, the poor little man.
He sleeps at night by the mill
And shares his bread with the farmer.
Look at Saint Francis, walking so cheerfully,
With nothing at all in his bundle.
He greets the wind: 'Good morning, friend,'
And tells the fire: 'You’re my brother.'
Look at Saint Francis on his journey,
Carrying little Jesus in his arms.
He invents games for the Child
And tells stories to the little bird.
Look at Saint Francis on his journey.
 

Look at Saint Francis,
Look at Saint Francis, Francis.
Look at Saint Francis,
Look at Saint Francis on his journey.
 

Antiqua

If I could say
What I desire,
Oh, then I would truly speak.
I’d find calm words to say,
And singing, on your lips
I’d let them lay.
 

If I could do
What I desire,
Oh, then I would truly fly.
Like a dove, I’d soar so high,
And in your hands, the bread
I’d gladly bite.
 

A silent mouth does no harm,
But if you listen, I will sing.
 

If I could love you
The way I wish,
I’d leave behind both wine and play.
In your body, I’d lose my way,
And night and day, within your bed,
Forever stay.
 

The door is locked, the night is dark,
But if you listen, I will sing.
 

If I could love you
The way I wish,
I’d leave behind both wine and play.
In your body, I’d lose my way,
And night and day, within your bed,
Forever stay.