十月の閃光 (Japanese Folk)

Ten Months of Lightning Crimson cup, a house of name Bound to live, an arranged game Father, grant me just one year To hold the brush, without a fear In his eyes, a silent grace Mercy paints his quiet face Cast away the silk and gold Breathe the street, so fierce and bold Smell of mud and coins that ring Working women, laugh and sing Crooked brows and lines of strife That’s the pulse of breathing life Spread the black mica, tear off the lies No pretty fabrications for these eyes Hooked noses, wrinkles, desires anew Carve out the raw, the absolute true Curse if you will, under Edo’s high skies Your sweet revulsion is my greatest prize! The publisher laughs, the fire ignites "Be the bomb that the city fights" Looking down on those who flatter the crowd Painting the dark, the sins they shroud Praising the doll, frail and demure? No, the real strength will always endure To the souls who walk the distant dawn: What are you layering before the glass? Erasing shadows, blurring lines, chasing numbers that will pass. Whose mask are you weaving with such quiet pain? In painted perfection, no true soul will ever remain. Ten fleeting months, the sand runs thin I’ll wash the dark ink from within Name erased, my head held high Behind the gates where whispers die The paper holds what eyes can't see The truth remains for eternity "Father, I have returned." Wash the brushes, wipe the stone Rising steam from tea alone Shadows softly grace the sand The ten months’ light across the land Deep within where no eyes reach A secret bloom beyond all speech. 【Story Concept】 In 1794, the phantom artist Sharaku revolutionized ukiyo-e, published 140+ radical portraits in just 10 months, and vanished forever. What if Sharaku was a noble samurai daughter who bargained for "one year of freedom" before an arranged marriage? Unlike 18th-century Europe where women lacked legal rights, Edo Japan's working-class women enjoyed rare independence and divorce rights. Escaping her gilded cage, she captured their raw, unfiltered power with dark mica backgrounds—rejecting fake beauty. A 200-year-old message to our modern world of AI filters and vanity: "True life breathes in the unpolished lines of who you are." ↓　　ここから日本語ね　　↓ 　　頑張って熟読してね 朱の杯 家と家の契り 定められた 籠の鳥となる前に 父よ、乞い願うは ただ一年の猶予 筆をとる指を 見つめ返す父の目に 咎めなき哀憐が 静かに滲む 打ち掛けを脱ぎ捨てて 町風を浴びる 奥奥の静寂には無き 泥の匂い 汗と銭の音に塗れ 笑う市井の女たち その眉の歪みこそが 生きて呼吸する証 黒雲母の闇を敷き 剥ぎ取る虚飾 美しき嘘など この筆は記さない 鷲鼻も 老いた皴も 濁る欲望も 鏡より確かなる 「真」を抉り出せ 誹らばそしれ 江戸の空よ 数多の悪評こそが 我が痛快の極み 戯作者の男が 笑って煽る 「世間を逆撫でする 爆薬になれ」と 客に媚びる絵師どもを 冷ややかに見下ろし 舞台の袖に潜む 人間の業を描く 庇護される人形の 清純を称えるな 飯を喰い 毒を吐き 己が足で立つ女達 その太い指先が 次の世の扉を押し開く いつか巡る季節の あなたへ 鏡に映すその顔に 何を塗り重ねているの 影を消し 輪郭を削り 実体のない数を数えて 誰のための仮面を 纏っているのかしら 飾られた絵姿に 命の息吹は宿りはしないわ 十月の砂が落ち 約定は満ちる 筆を置き 黒き墨を 白き水へと流す 名を捨てて 顔を伏せ 武家の門を潜ろうとも 私が切り取った真実は 紙の上で生き続ける 「お父上、ただいま戻りました」 筆を洗い 硯を拭い 一服の茶に 湯気が立つ 白砂の庭へ 落ちる影 我が十月の閃光は 誰の目にも触れぬ 胸の奥 一輪の寒椿として 秘めておきましょう