Lost Out in the Cold (文永の役)

Every year on New Year’s Eve, a theatrical festival called “Battle of Bun’ei / Hakata Bay” is held in a remote mountain village. And every year, the village mayor told the provincial governor about the successful event. And every year, the government provides a subsidy from the budget to hold it. And everything was great until one day they called from Tokyo and said that rich tourists from Saudi Arabia would be visiting them…

Lost Out in the Cold (文永の役):

01. احتفال الجليد (Ice Celebration)
02. Himari’s Pedicure
03. The Haruto’s Frantic Morning
04. Sake in the Snow
05. What Am I Doing Here?
06. Mr. Riku’s Assignment
07. The Chief’s Call
08. Sake-Fueled Samurai
09. الحسناء الشمالية (Northern Beauty)
10. To Hell With It!
11. The Human Experience
12. The Hangover Morning
13. It’s Not a Joke
14. الجمال الغامض (A Mysterious Stranger)

Ice Celebration

Let us journey northward, my friend,
To where snow blankets slopes and peaks without end.

Where candles pierce the veil of night,
And simplicity mirrors stars in their flight.

In the north, where tales are spun,
And frost carves stories beneath the sun.

They greet the new year in peculiar ways,
Swimming in river etched with icy displays.

Oh, the strangeness of their festive art,
Yet magic lingers, warming the heart.

So let us go, my companion dear,
To see with our eyes what draws them near.

The water is ice, yet cradles them tight,
Like a friend embracing in the frost’s bite.

Oh, their madness, their joy untamed,
Turning cold to moments eternally framed.

Let us go, too, and witness the lore,
Of how life breathes in the chill’s core.

So let us go, my friend, and see,
How fleeting breaths birth infinity.

Himari’s Pedicure

(What kind of crazy people would want to come to such a remote area?)

To a village remote, where the mountains sigh,
She came with a just suitcase, a whisper, a cry.
No more the chains, no more the pain –
Here she could bloom in the softest of rain.

Mr. Riku-san gave her a desk and a chair,
A secretary’s job and new office wear.
But paper and pens could not fill her days,
For her mind still wandered in intricate ways.

So, there she sat, her headphones on,
Tapping her toes to a jubilant song.
A pedicure ritual, her small escape,
Each stroke of color a new shape.

The villagers whispered, but she didn’t care,
Her laughter now danced in the open air.
No longer bound by his anger, his fist,
She found her strength in moments like this.

She painted her nails, as cheerful tunes played,
A symbol of triumph, a life remade.

Her beauty was not just skin-deep, they knew,
It was in her laughter, her heartbreaking through.
A girl once trapped, who now boldly stays –
Bored, perhaps, but free in her ways.

They said she fled a gilded cage of pain,
A husband’s wrath, a love turned hurricane.
Now in this village, nestled far away,
She hides her past and waits for a new day.

She painted her nails, as cheerful tunes played,
A symbol of triumph, a life remade.

(What kind of crazy people would want to come to such a remote area?)

The Haruto’s Frantic Morning

(They’ll come by helicopter)

The sun had barely kissed the dawn,
When the accountant Haruto was gone.
He sprinted through the icy air,
His breath a cloud of frantic despair.

Bursting into the office space,
He found the secretary, face to face.
“Where is the elder Riku-san? Quickly, do tell!
The capital’s calling! It’s urgent as hell!

Guests from Saudi, yes, Saudi Arabia,
Are coming to see our winter mania.
They wish to see us, happy and miming,
Celebrate the New Year with holiday swimming!”

“They’re curious, you see, about our New Year’s strange delight,
Of swimming in the icy depths, a chilling, wondrous sight!”

The secretary blinked, her coffee mid-sip,
Then leaned back with a sardonic quip:
“The Riku-san, you say? Oh, what a shame,
He’s fishing by the river – playing “that” game.”

“Fishing?” the accountant asked with a frown,
His nerves already breaking down.
“Yes, fishing,” she said with a knowing sigh.
“With his mistress, beneath the morning sky.”

“What about photos of samurai in snow and bathing in frozen water for Riku-san?”
“We don’t need any more of those damn pictures!”

The accountant groaned, a desperate plea,
His to-do list now a catastrophe.
He dashed back out, his briefcase swinging,
Dreams of holidays no longer clinging.

“They’re curious, you see, about our New Year’s strange delight,
Of swimming in the icy depths, a chilling, wondrous sight!”

(They’ll come by helicopter)

Sake in the Snow

The frosted breath of winter hung, a veil upon the stream,
As elder Riku, warm with sake, indulged a pleasant dream.
Beside him, Nagi, silken-clad, a fleeting, secret grace,
Shared whispered laughter, soft and low, in this secluded place.

Haruto bursts onto the bank, breathless and red:
“Riku! Damn it, you’re here getting drunk instead!
Itsuki’s been calling, his voice full of fire —
From the capital, elder — it sounds rather dire!”

Riku sighs worriedly, takes a sip of sake:
“Haruto, you’re yelling. You’re making me groggy.
What news could be urgent, to bother me so?
Speak quickly, father-in-law, before I say no.”

“Tourists! From Saudi Arabia, no less!
They’re coming for New Year’s, to see how we fest!
And not just the food or the lanterns aglow —
They want to see villagers swim in the snow!”

Elder choking on sake, his calm turns to rage:
“Swim in the cold? Have they want us to lose visage?
Haruto, you fool, this cannot be real —
Our people in icy water? That’s not part of the deal!”

Mistress chuckling, amused, with a twinkle in eye:
“Perhaps it’s a challenge? A test they imply?
But elder, my love, I don’t think it’s wise —
Our villagers faint if the frost nips their thighs.”

Riku groaning, clutching his head in his hands:
“Haruto, this madness must have some demands.
Tell me, what do they want? And why can’t they be swayed?
We’ll never survive without tricks to be played!”

Haruto crosses his arms, with a glare in his eyes:
“They’ve seen all the brochures, the photos, the lies.
Now they want authenticity, the real village flair —
And no, elder, we can’t just pretend that we care”.

Riku groaning again, then slams down his cup:
“Damn it, Haruto, enough! We’ll shape something up.
I’ll go to the city, as swift as the breeze —
The theater has costumes, they’ll loan them with ease.

And the military — yes! We’ll get tents and some gear,
To warm up the villagers and spread festive cheer.
As for the swimming — forget the whole lot.
I’ll hire some actors; they’ll give it a shot.”

Riku rising, wobbling, but steadying his stance:
“Fine, Haruto, let’s go — I’ll give them their chance.
But first, one more sip, for the road must be met
With courage — and sake’s the best courage yet.”

Haruto still keeps repeated:
“From Arabia’s sands… From Arabia’s sands…”

The elder downs his cup, and the three start to go,
Their footprints dissolving in fresh-falling snow
(fresh-falling snow)

What Am I Doing Here?

In the hollow of hills where the world stands still,
A village lies, quiet, beneath the chill.
The air hums soft, a muted refrain,
Of boring days that repeat again.

The mountains stretch wide, an eternal yawn,
Where nothing stirs but the creeping dawn.
The monkeys know more than the folk who stare,
Eyes dulled by the weight of the empty air.

Their words are whispers of stale refrain,
Echoes of nothing, again and again.
They speak of crops, of weather, of rain,
But never of dreams, or hunger, or pain.

They grin, they laugh, in their simple way,
But their faces are masks, too blank to betray.
Their thoughts are small, their vision blind,
To the edges of life, they’ll never find.

And yet — no one seeks me, no one calls.
No shadow looms, no voice appalls.
The weight of boredom, the drone of the day,
Keeps the wolves of the past far, far away.

The villagers, they trudge with vacant eyes,
Their minds as fallow as the hills that lie
Beneath the scorching gaze of endless skies.

Here I’m no one, just part of the waste,
A ghost in a land of unhurried haste.
The stillness, a tomb, yet oddly kind,
For no one searches where no one minds.

They speak of things that hold no spark, no gleam,
Their laughter grates, a brittle, hollow sound,
Lost in a shallow, slow, monotonous dream.

So, I sit, and I rot, in this dull, safe cage,
A life unwritten, a blank, torn page.
The village is nothing, the people are less,
But here, at least, I can rest.

Mr. Riku’s Assignment

The elder Riku called, his tone was grim,
A strange request, a shadowed whim.

“Costumes demand a bribe,” he said,
“The military’s hands are open, spread.
But for tents to warm our village folk,
They’ll need a bribe — a bitter yoke.”

“The musicians, though, they’ll play their part,
But only if we feed their art.
With cryptocurrency’s fleeting glow,
For cash holly day, they will not show.”

He paused, then gave his final cue:
“While I am gone, the task’s on you.
Open the safe; within, you’ll find
A crypto wallet, tightly lined.
Exchange the bitcoins, swift and clear,
But here’s the twist, so lend an ear —

Transfer the sum to your old aunt,
She’ll know just where the funds should plant.
After the holiday, she’ll make the trade,
And all our dues will then be paid.

She’ll cash them out, discreet and sly,
Once all the festive dust does fly.
So, act with speed, and don’t you fret,
This little secret, we’ll protect.”

“When the holiday ends,” he repeated,
“She’ll cash it out, we’ll pay our debt.
The bribes will settle, all will cheer,
And no one’s wiser by next year.”

A Bitcoin transfer? What’s all this?
Digital coins? Some crypto abyss?

Numbers, I know — the old-fashioned way,
Ledgers and ink, where I used to play.
But now they want wallets and codes that fly,
Invisible money in the blink of an eye.

Then it hits me — my saving grace,
The secretary, young, quick in pace.
She’s sharp with tech, she’ll know the trick,
One call to her, and she’ll fix it quick.

The future’s bright, but it moves too fast —
Good thing I’ve got help, or I’d never last!

For in this world of shifting sands,
Where technology commands,
An old accountant needs a hand,
To navigate this digital land.

The Chief’s Call

Elder called the villagers Friday’s night,
Beneath the stars, the snow’s soft light.
“They need a holiday,” he whispered,
“To fill our streets with joy instead”.

“Friends,” he began, “hear what I say,
Visitors come from lands far away.
Our friends from Saudi, rich and grand,
They’ wanna see our snow, a frozen land!”

Young Kagami whispered, “Saudi folk?
They live in heat, beneath the yoke
Of scorching sun, a desert wide,
Why would they come, where cold reside?”

But elder smiled, “They’ve never seen
A world of white, a frosty scene!
We’ll have a holiday, a winter’s spree,
‘Battle of Bun’ei’, for all to see!”

“Please, my children,” the elder proclaimed,
“Let us honor the past, though it’s wild and untamed.
The snow is our stage, the cold is our foe —
For them, we’ll summon the samurai’s glow.”

Then Riko said, “The battle’s to be well fought!
But victory’s true test is yet unsought!
The icy river will call, a warrior’s test,
To plunge within, and prove yourselves the best!”

The Riku’s cunning eyes gleamed with delight,
“We’ll show them our holiday, full of might!”

(from Arabia’s sands, from Arabia’s sands, from Arabia’s sands, from Arabia’s sands)

A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd,
“Swim in that ice?” they muttered, heads all bowed.
“We’d sooner face a hungry mountain bear,
Then tempt the river’s frozen, deadly snare.”

The villagers groaned, their faces grim,
For no one fancied a frosty swim.
“Elder, you’re mad!” said old man Kai.
“We’d freeze to death — we’d surely die!”

The elder, undaunted, rubbed at his chin,
A sly little twinkle is beginning to spin.
“Ah, but friends, you forget the prize —
A feast awaits when the samurai rise!

Warm roasted duck, and pork belly too,
Hot steaming rice, and rich miso stew!
And to wash it down, let me be brisk —
Endless sake, and barrels of whiskey!”

Old Kai grumbled, “I’ll swim if there’s stew…
But good old whiskey will warm us up too!”
The farmer’s wife sighed, “If there’s sake in store,
I’ll wade through ice, though my bones feel sore.”

The Riku’s cunning eyes gleamed with delight,
“We’ll show them our holiday, full of might!”

(from Arabia’s sands, from Arabia’s sands, from Arabia’s sands, from Arabia’s sands)

Sake-Fueled Samurai

(they came by helicopter, they came by helicopter)

Beneath the sun’s cold silver glare,
The village gathered, chilled and bare.
With sake’s warmth in every chest,
The drunken hearts beat bold, possessed.

“Today,” they roared, “we are samurai,
With frozen steel and spirits high!”
They staggered forth with wooden blades,
Their war cries echoed through the glades.

The snow became their battlefield,
Where drunken honor would not yield.
They stumbled, swung, and tumbled down,
Each claiming victory and renown.

But as the day grew colder still,
Their courage waned; they’d had their fill.
The elder spoke, his voice a dare:
“True samurai must prove they care.

(they came by helicopter, they came by helicopter)

Dive now into the icy water stream,
And seal your bond with winter’s dream!”
(Dive now into the icy water stream,
And seal your bond with winter’s dream)

They huddled close, their breath in clouds,
The mighty warriors are now mere crowds.
The sake’s fire began to fade,
And fear crept in, their hearts betrayed.

And now they stood on the frozen brink,
And one by one began to think:
Was courage worth this frozen fate?
Wasn’t warmth back home just as great?

“After you,” they all declared,
As not a single soul yet dared,
To leap into the icy water flow,
Their courage melted like the snow.

Excuses flew; their pride grew thin,
The cold gnawed sharp at their drunken skin.
The samurai, once fierce and loud,
Now huddled close, a shivering crowd.

(they came by helicopter, they came by helicopter)

Now huddled close, they shake with fright,
Each hopes others take the plight.
(Now huddled close, they shake with fright,
Each hoping others take the plight)

(they shake with fright, they shake with fright, they shake with fright, they shake with fright)

Northern Beauty

The New Year’s Eve party in the village,
Lacks vitality, lacks excitement.
We wish we were somewhere else,
Far from this cold, dull village.

We came seeking the warmth of joy for the New Year,
But found a lifeless gathering, stripped of meaning,
Dim lights, and music endlessly repeating,
Faces wandering, as if waiting for their own ending.

Where is the fervor? Where is the song?
Where is the warmth of spirits in this vast, empty throng?
The clock drags on, unwilling to move,
While the cold seeps into our bones like an unwelcome guest.

We watch the final minute like it’s salvation,
But it arrives hollow, devoid of sensation.
A new year is born here, but it has no breath,
As if time itself has stalled in a lifeless loop.

(Time to fly away)
(With her, with her, with her, with her…)

And then we saw her—a star in a darkened sky,
A radiant girl, her smile lighting the night.
She spoke English, her voice a melodic tune,
A warmth that melted the frost from the moon.

She sat with us, and winter softened suddenly,
As if the wind, ashamed, changed its course humbly.
Her laughter painted colors across the whiteness,
Her words a bridge to cross the familiar bleakness.

In her voice, we forgot the cold and snow,
And in her eyes, we found an evening’s glow.
The village was dull, the party lifeless,
But her presence turned moments into treasures timeless.

The New Year’s Eve party in the village,
Lacks vitality, lacks excitement.
We wish we were somewhere else,
Far from this cold, dull village.

(Time to fly away)
(With her, with her, with her, with her…)

To Hell With It!

(I don’t care for the cold or snow,
Or how the wild wind dares to blow!)

The wind howled fierce, a biting gale,
Snow swirled around, a ghostly veil.
Her troubles piled, a heavy weight,
Mistress slammed the door, sealed off fate.

“To hell with it!” she screamed aloud,
A rebel yell amidst the crowd
Of doubts and fears, a weary sigh,
“I need another drink!” she cried.

Not fire’s warmth, nor spirits’ heat,
But the river’s chill, a wild retreat.
She raced through snow, a frosted blur,
The icy bank, her chosen cure.

“And I dive in!” she laughed with might,
“The cold, the snow, this bitter light,
I don’t care!” Her voice rang clear,
A challenge flung, dispelling fear.

She plunged beneath, a frigid shock,
The water’s grip, a frozen lock.
“Let’s all follow me!” she bravely screamed,
“Embrace the wild, live out the dream!”

I don’t care for the cold or snow,
Or how the wild wind dares to blow!
(I don’t care for the cold or snow,
Or how the wild wind dares to blow!)

And into the icy depths people flew,
Chasing freedom, wild and true.
For in her madness, they found peace —
A moment where the cold could cease.

I don’t care for the cold or snow,
Or how the wild wind dares to blow!
(I don’t care for the cold or snow,
Or how the wild wind dares to blow!)

The wind howled fierce, a biting gale,
Snow swirled around, a ghostly veil.
Her troubles piled, a heavy weight,
Mistress slammed the door, sealed off fate.

(I don’t care for the cold or snow,
Or how the wild wind dares to blow!)

The Human Experience

Beneath a sky of silver-gray,
Where winter stole the warmth away,
The monkeys huddled, tails entwined,
A quiet troop with curious minds.

The snow fell soft, a frosted lace,
And powdered each expressive face.
Their breath hung thick, a misty plume,
In the forest’s cold and icy gloom.

But what was this before their eyes?
A sight bizarre, a strange surprise:
Frozen figures, poised mid-stride,
With swords aloft, as if in pride.

“Samurai,” one monkey guessed,
Tilting its head, a little impressed.
“Frozen humans?” another chimed,
“Or statues placed by winter’s time?”

They mimicked warriors, poised for war,
Their faces stern, their forms hardcore.
Yet frost had claimed their fiery zeal,
And trapped them still as ice-bound steel.

The simians, with chattering teeth,
Observe this scene with great relief.
Their furry coats protect from cold,
While humans shiver, stiff and bold.

A clash of cultures, old and new,
As monkeys ponder what to do:
Shall they descend and join the fray?
Or simply watch, and turn away?

The frozen samurai, so still and grim,
Await the monkeys’ next wild whim.
In this winter wonderland, a curious sight,
Monkeys and warriors, both in the snow’s light.

They mimicked warriors, poised for war,
Their faces stern, their forms hardcore.
Yet frost had claimed their fiery zeal,
And trapped them still as ice-bound steel.

The Hangover Morning

The dawn, a cruel and throbbing thing,
Assailed our skulls, a mournful sting.
Last night, the melodies did flow,
A vibrant, joyful, raucous show.
(But now, the instruments lie still,
Replaced by aches and winter chill)

Our throats, like deserts, cracked and dry,
Our eyes, two bruised and swollen sky.
The trumpet shimmers, pale and wan,
A testament to all that’s gone.
(The guitar, a tangled mess,
Reflects our inner wretchedness)

The musicians, so weary, sore,
March to the elder’s home door.

Hell’s bell, a hammer on his skull,
Pulled him from sleep, a painful lull.
The festive cheer, a distant hum,
Now replaced by aches to come.
(But duty calls, a cruel command,
He stumbles up, with shaky hand)

The musicians wait, their payment due,
For melodies he danced right through.
His wallet weeps, a sorry sight,
He must return to work, this day,
(To earn the coin, to make things right,
And pay artists, come what may)

A hangover’s price, he’ll surely pay,
For festive tunes of yesterday.

He entered the office, his footsteps slow,
His body still aching, his spirit low.
To the safe he went, for the funds he sought —
But the door creaked open, revealing… naught.
(No cash, no coin, no glittering key,
No crypto to free him from his misery)

The safe, a void, a mocking space,
Reflecting back his drunken face.

Riku-san stormed in, his face lined with dread,
His temples still throbbing, a storm in his head.
“Where is the money? The cash? The coin?
The cryptocurrency we worked to enjoin?”
(The money has gone, the crypto is flown,
The accountant’s clueless, his alone)

Haruto-san blinked, his face pale and drawn,
As if he’d awaited this reckoning dawn.
“I did as you asked, every word you conveyed,
And your secretary helped—together we obeyed.”
(Beautiful Himari, bright and keen,
She helped me make the process clean)

The elder stood silent, then grabbed at his chair,
His hangover pounding in despair.
“All my hard work, my savings, my trust—
Gone with the wind, turned to New Year’s dust!”
(The Himari’s smile, helicopter and dread,
Memories flashed in his suddenly head)

The money has gone, the crypto is flown,
The accountant’s clueless, his alone.

(to Arabia’s sands, to Arabia’s sands, to Arabia’s sands, to Arabia’s sands)

It’s Not a Joke

The chief strode in, his badge gleamed bright,
Prepared to face the day’s first fight.
But silence lingered—no phones, no calls,
Just laughter echoing through the halls.

His officers huddled, a giggling spree,
What on earth could the commotion be?
“Report!” he barked, with a voice of steel,
“What’s so funny? What’s the deal?”

A village remote, snow-clad and still,
Where trouble brewed at the elder’s will.
The local budget, the crypto cash flow,
Vanished that night in a cloud of snow.

“They drank,” they told, “by the frozen stream,
Playing samurai, like some drunken dream.
With sticks as swords, they fought and yelled,
While winter’s grip around them held.”

“And then,” they said, “as alcohol soared,
They stripped right down, all sense ignored.
They dove headfirst in the icy flood,
Emerging blue, but laughing like studs.”

The Chief, his brow a furrowed line,
Stood tall, his voice a granite sign.
“The village funds, they’ve vanished clean!
Who dared this wicked, brazen scene?”

The officers spoke in a hushed, low tone,
“It seems the elder’s secretary’s flown”.

“She vanished, see, right after the big bash,”
“With all the funds, and not a single dash”.
No explanation, just an empty space,
“Like she’d erased herself from this whole place.”

“The safe was cracked, the wallets gone,
The secretary disappeared at dawn”.

“Show her photo!” barked the Chief,
His patience was worn, beyond belief.
A grainy image, quick displayed,
His eyes went wide, his face betrayed.

He slammed his fist upon the desk,
“Damn! This woman, a grotesque!
The whole police force is out for her!
She’s robbed two exchanges for a year!

We chase a ghost, a phantom thief,
This isn’t village-level grief!”

“The whole force hunts her, near and far,
She’s played this game; she’s raised the bar.
Two crypto exchanges, wiped them clean,
But this village is part of her scheme.”

(We chase a ghost, a phantom thief,
This isn’t village-level grief)

A Mysterious Stranger

In the desert sands, she walks alone,
With steps so light, like a fleeting shadow.
Her eyes, a gleam, rare as a pearl,
Concealing secrets no human can know.

Her hair, like night, cascades down her shoulders,
Dancing with the wind, a sorrowful tune.
Her face, a moon, lighting the dark,
A mysterious beauty that enchants every gaze.

By the sea’s edge, she treads in silence,
Gazing at the waves, at times uncertain,
At other times, she seems assured,
As if she knows what no one else does.

O enigmatic girl, what secret do you hide?
What story dwells within your eyes?
Have you come from a time forgotten by years,
Or are you a message from a world without name?

(A lonely girl, so strange, so fair,
As though an eternal legend rare)

She does not speak, nor smile, nor grieve,
She only walks, contemplating the world,
As if she’s of it, yet does not belong,
A riddle adrift in a vast expanse.

Who is she? Where is she from?
No one knows, no one asks.
They only see her walking alone,
With a veiled beauty and a buried mystery.

O enigmatic girl, what secret do you hide?
What story dwells within your eyes?
Have you come from a time forgotten by years,
Or are you a message from a world without name?

(A lonely girl, so strange, so fair,
As though an eternal legend rare)

https://m.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJDxjB7wRNf6pFy0DQFfphjzhHCfD2VU7