夕暮れの古い通りに、電線が幾重にも空を横切る。降りたシャッター、瓦屋根、ぽつりと灯る丸い街灯。山あいに沈む夕日が、どこか懐かしい路地をやわらかく染めていく。真新しいものばかりが正解じゃない。少し古びた風景にも、この村ならではの味わいが静かに息づいている。
English
At dusk, a tangle of power lines crosses the sky above an old street. The shutters are down, the tiled roofs darken, and a single round lamp glows at the corner. Behind the misted hills the sun sinks low, washing the lane in a soft, golden, half-remembered light. Not everything has to be new to be right. There is a flavour here that belongs to this village alone — quiet, a little worn at the edges, still carrying the lingering air of the Showa years. It is part of what makes this place beautiful.
