これはファッションじゃねぇ、痛みだ これはオシャレじゃねぇ、痛みだ 刻め 祖父は長崎育ち、祖母は満州育ち August 9, 1945 午前11時2分 長崎でそいつは起きた 74000以上の命を奪った そして それ以上の笑顔を奪い…何を得た？ 暗いトンネル進む祖父。祖父は同じ空の下にいた一人。 ピカドン、まばゆい閃光。ピカドン、とどろく閃光。 瞬刻 とどろく爆心、爆雷、正体不明の大事件。 真っ黒だったトンネル。すぐさま真っ白になったトンネル。 トンネルは安全地帯、かろうじて繋がった時代。 私も赤い血通う人間だ、兵器じゃねえ。 私も初めて聞いた生い立ちだ、平気じゃねえ。 私も責任ある歴史の担い手。その日、その後、何が起きた、知りたい、祖父に聞く、聞いてみたんだ トンネルよりも長く続いた沈黙 祖父は何も答えず、ただうつむく。 トンネル抜けりゃ、あったのは答えなんかよりも「学校はどうだ」のただ一言。 トンネルよりも長く続いた沈黙 祖父は何も答えず、ただ目を見る。 「学校はどうだ」、私を案じたただ一言。ただそれだけだった。 その意味、青空よりも広く、トンネルよりも暗く 祖母は満州育ち。 教科書で聞いてた知らない土地。無縁に見えてた知らない土地。 祖母から聞かされたのは楽しい思い出ばかりさ。 輪投げだ、お手玉、かくれんぼ、子供遊びばかりだ。私と同じじゃねえか。 初めて聞いたリアルに驚く。しかし、しばらくすりゃ電報、とどろく、終わりがとどろく。 私も赤い血通う人間だ、兵器じゃねえ。 私も初めて聞いた生い立ちだ、平気じゃねえ。 私も責任ある歴史の担い手。その日、その後、何が起きた、知りたい、祖母に聞く、聞いてみたんだ 遊びは終わり、暮らしも終わり 風呂敷たたんで一目散に引き上げる。 お船を降りりゃ届くのは、想像よりも悲惨な現実。突きつけるリアル。 遊びは終わり、暮らしも終わり なんだかんだで船に乗り込み引き上げる。 届くのは、逃げ遅れたお友達に起きた悲劇、それがリアルだった。 その意味、朝陽よりも赤く、目を逸らしたくなるほど酷く 何も聞かされず、何も答えず、その意味だけが青空よりも。 何も聞かされず、何も答えず、いま天に聞きゃ答えはあるか？ 何も聞かされず、何も答えず、言葉はなかったが、その意味だけは青空よりも、でけえ。 +++++ Excavator さんから引用: 🇯🇵抹茶さんが、日本を旅した経験から素敵な作品を沢山産み出して、私達に公開してくれています。その中に「原爆の悲惨さ」を大きなテーマとした曲があります。 また、@Excavator さん @Lofi and... さん @ぱとれーばー さん ＠KOUKAさん も凄惨な歴史についての歌を公開しています。ぜひお聞きください。 「炎と毒」 https://suno.com/song/661b15de-04be-4991-9470-f7517567e6a4 「🔴📝Pica-don is Flash and Bang, Everything evaporated and disappeared」 https://suno.com/song/c02a1c8f-aba8-43e5-97e9-8c2e497364c9 「のうのう - No×No - (ft. オオタカ三鷹)」 https://suno.com/song/0506d298-35a1-42ad-a74f-d4b4fa88ed02 「勿忘草の記憶」 https://suno.com/song/3d80a36c-2163-414f-85b9-af7bba3fb62d 「1945/08/06 08:15 Hiroshima」 https://suno.com/song/639911ed-abbc-4e7c-a8cc-bc1a9aabe2f6 私も含め、当事者になり得ない以上、ある一面を切り取って、当事者の視点で物語を語ってしまうと、「当事者ではない私達が、当事者の視点で物語を書く事は嘘を広めているの同じ事になり、冒涜でもある事」となってしまうことがあります。 この曲は私と祖父・祖母との思い出でもあり、私の視点からみた知っていること、直接に聞いたことだけを歌にしたものです。 +++++ [Intro] This song wasn’t made to look fashionable. It’s pure, raw pain itself. This song wasn’t crafted to sound stylish either. It’s real pain, straight from the soul. Etch it into your heart. [Verse] My grandfather grew up in Nagasaki. My grandmother grew up in Manchukuo. August 9, 1945, at 11:02 AM. It happened in Nagasaki. It stole over 74,000 lives— and countless more smiles beyond that. What did we gain in return? That day, my grandfather too was beneath that same sky. But at the very moment it happened, he happened to be inside a pitch-black tunnel. Pikadon! — a blinding flash ripped across the sky. Pikadon! — a deafening roar followed. A heartbeat later, an unknown, extraordinary light engulfed everything, and thunder came crashing down upon him. The tunnel, once swallowed in darkness, was instantly flooded with a whiteness brighter than any midday sun. What happened afterward— everyone knows. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. But by a sheer miracle, the inside of that tunnel alone remained a sanctuary. Thanks to that miracle, my grandfather survived. And now, I carry the baton of the life he passed down to me. Until then, I had never heard anything about my grandfather’s past. As I grew up and took on my own responsibilities, I decided to visit my grandparents after a long time. That day, for the first time, I heard the story of my grandfather’s life. The shock shattered any composure I had. The facts I knew only from textbooks— they were already running through my veins. I’m an adult now. I wanted to fulfill my role— to find something I could pass down. Even knowing how painful it must be, I gathered my courage and asked my grandfather about that day. [Chorus] When I asked, my grandfather only lowered his eyes and stayed silent. That silence stretched on, longer and darker than any tunnel. After a long while, he lifted his gaze and finally spoke. I thought I had made it through the tunnel— thought I would finally hear the truth. But his answer was different from what I expected. He didn't speak of the past at all. Instead, he simply asked: “How’s school? Are you doing okay?” He hid every truth I sought inside his silence, and instead, he only worried about my future. My grandfather was a wise man. He chose not to recount the horrors he had seen. He chose to care, instead, for my tomorrow. In that moment, I understood— and could not ask him anything further. The real meaning behind his silence— only God could know it now. The full story remains unknown to me. But looking back, his silent act of love feels broader than the summer sky, and deeper than any tunnel. [Verse] My grandmother grew up in Manchuria. (※Manchuria: a former Japanese-controlled region in what is now northeastern China, lost after WWII. Full explanation omitted for brevity.) In school, I learned about Manchuria. But to me, it felt like a distant fairy tale— something I knew of, but could never truly touch. Later, as an adult, I heard my grandmother’s story directly from her. She had lived in Manchukuo. Suddenly, the “fairy tale” became real, and I realized that her blood runs through me too. At first, I was stunned. My grandmother shared her memories— memories filled only with joy: playing ring toss, juggling beanbags, hide-and-seek with friends. Her face lit up with those stories. She had lived a childhood much like mine. But as the story neared the war’s end, her smile faded. I knew it would be painful— but still, I asked her to continue. (※Historically, after the war, Manchuria collapsed under Soviet invasion. Many could not return. My grandmother was one of the few who survived.) [Chorus] After the telegram announcing the end of the war arrived, Manchuria did not collapse overnight. Instead, its once-glittering facade slowly tarnished, darkening into a deep, bloody haze. When the telegram announcing Japan’s defeat arrived, everything changed. The home where she had lived, the life she had known— it all began to crumble. Her family packed their lives into bundles, and fled by train and ship, barely surviving. But the Japan they returned to was more broken, more tragic, than anything they had imagined. Later came the news: friends who hadn’t made it back. Only heartbreak reached them. My grandmother wept when she heard what had become of her old home. Looking back, she said it was a miracle that she lived. When I heard her story— not from textbooks, but from her own trembling voice— I was stunned into silence. I had asked her to tell me, but the weight of her words, the look on her face, were almost too painful to bear. [Outro] In the end, I still know almost nothing. I don’t know how my grandfather spent that day, or the days that followed. I don’t know what he felt as he lived, bearing that silence. Neither he nor my grandmother ever told me everything. My grandfather, especially, took the truth with him as he slipped quietly into the heavens. If I could now ask the sky and hear an answer, I would. I don’t know the words he left unspoken. But somehow, I believe it’s true: The meaning behind his silence— was wider and deeper than even the endless blue of the summer sky.
