被爆者の歌 (The Song of the Hibakusha)
善本礼子 Reiko Yoshimoto
どくだみ草を日日に摘みいし友はいま髪抜け落ちて命終えたり
The friend who once picked dokudami leaves every day now lies in a grave—her hair all fallen, her life come to an end.
原爆に生き残りたる友とわれ
幾歳月の命確かむ
We, who survived the atomic bomb, quietly acknowledge the long years we have lived.
けたたましきサイレンの音に身はよだつ
戦争恐怖の被爆者われは
At the sharp sound of a siren, my body still trembles—for I am one of the hibakusha, forever haunted by the terror of war.
原爆の地獄のさまは目の裏に残りて消えず
老いてゆく吾れ
The vision of that atomic hell remains behind my eyes, refusing to fade as I grow old.
五十年忌『原爆投下は正しい』と
胸を突き刺す言葉聴きおり
On the fiftieth anniversary, I heard the words: “The atomic bombing was justified.” They pierced my heart like a blade.
秋空にひろがる茜の夕暮れは
原爆投下の夜空顕たせる
The crimson dusk that spreads across the autumn sky evokes the night sky that followed the atomic bombing.¹
みかげ石に焼き付けられし人のかげ
原爆光線凄き一瞬¹
A human shadow burned into a slab of granite—a single instant, seared by the bomb’s merciless light.¹
学友は原爆犠牲となり果てて
母校と共に消えて逝きたり
My classmates became victims of the atomic bomb, vanishing with our beloved school.
原爆の焼け野原に日が暮れて
人捜すという火の玉揺るる
As night fell over the burned-out ruins, a glowing spirit flame flickered—someone who died searching for loved ones.
一瞬に乗客電車と共に焦げ
座ったままに黄泉路を行けり
In one flash, the passengers and the train itself were charred. Still seated, they had crossed into the afterlife.
被爆せし子に塗る油と交換の着物を背負う痩せ果てし母²
Carrying a kimono on her back to trade for abura—
the mother, emaciated, seeks abura to soothe her bomb-scarred child.¹²
川の字に半焼け親子の痛ましさ
生まれし初子と喜びいしも
There they lay—half-burned, a parent and child, side by side. I imagined how they once rejoiced at the birth of that first child.
原爆でガマも犠牲となり果てて
土手埋め尽くす音なき街に
Even the frogs perished in the bombing, as they crowded the embankments of the silent town.
仮小屋を建てて住みいる焼け跡に
ガマの死体は黒く干乾ぶ
We built a shack and tried to live among the ruins. The bodies of frogs lay black and shriveled in the sun.
炎天の音なき街の土手道を
つまだち歩むガマを避けつつ
On a blazing day, in a soundless town, I walked cautiously along the embankment, avoiding the dead frogs along the path.
原爆で焼けし母校の影はなし
命助かり其処にたたずむ
The burned remains of my school cast no shadow. I, who survived, now stand alone where it once stood.
佇みて建物うせし吾が母校
犠牲となりたる友に黙祷す
I stand in silence where my school once stood, offering prayers to the friends who perished there.
中風の叔母を背負いて逃げまどう
防空壕は工事中なり³
Carrying my chūfū-stricken aunt on my back, I fled in desperation—but the air raid shelter was still under construction.³
服破れ髪振り乱し逃げまどう
頭上に落ちしは原子爆弾
The atomic bomb had fallen. Clothes torn, hair disheveled, people fled in panic.
道端に火傷で黒く汚れはて
水乞う生ある微かなひびき
Along the roadside, charred and filthy from burns, a faint voice whispered, “Water… please…”
きのこ雲見上げし一瞬わが頭上
屋根が落ちたり八月の朝
The moment I looked up and saw the mushroom cloud, the roof collapsed above me—a morning in August.
ぼろ布の如くに皮膚は垂れ下がり
泣きつつ逃げるあてなき道を
Skin hangs like tattered cloth, as they run in tears down streets with nowhere to go.
パリパリと破れ傘うつ黒き雨
身を寄せ合える屋根なき家に⁴
“Paripari”—the crisp sound of black rain hitting a torn umbrella—in a roofless house where people huddle together.⁴
黒き雨井戸にはげしく輪を描きて
屋根なき家は昼なお暗し
Black rain circles the well in fierce rings, and even at noon, the roofless house remains in darkness.
被爆せし顔もつ子供の呼び声で
引き帰り見る哀れな従兄弟を
A child with a face burned by the bomb calls out—I turn back and see my poor cousin.
荷車に被爆せし子を乗せ急ぐ来た者だけの米の配給に
A bomb-scarred child rides in a cart, as the mother rushes to the rice rationing—
only those who arrive in person receive a portion.
トビ持ちて川面に浮かぶ死体をば
寄せる男の念仏たかし
With a bamboo pole, a man chants sutras aloud as he draws floating bodies toward him from the river.
上したに川面に浮かぶ死体いくつ
若しや身内と立ち去りがたし
So many bodies drift up and down the river—perhaps one is family, and I cannot walk away.
潮満ちて膨れあがれる死体なり
触れれば皮むけ身許わからず
The tide swells the bodies, bloated beyond recognition—skin peels away at a touch.
焼け跡に白いテントの連絡所
ハエむらがりて天井真黒し
In the ruins, a white tent stands—a relief station, its ceiling black with swarming flies.
被爆して昼夜泣く子はうとましく
寝がたき夜に梟の鳴く
The child cries day and night after the bombing—unbearable, as an owl hoots in the sleepless night.
被爆せし従兄弟を抱けばポロポロと
指間よりこぼるる白いうじ虫
Holding my cousin, burned in the bombing—white maggots spill between my fingers.
よそ者と呼ばるる村には医者はなく
頼りの油で被爆の子を拭く⁵
Called an outsider even in my parents’ home village, I found no doctor, no medicine—only abura to care for the child burned by the blast.⁵
火の中を背負いて逃げる学友は
何時の間にやら息たえていき
A classmate runs, carrying someone on their back, fleeing through fire—but somewhere along the way, they stop breathing.
家倒れ下敷きとなり焼けし子に
迫る火の手に助ける術なし
A house collapses, a child trapped beneath begins to burn, and there is no way to save them.
原爆で下敷きとなり焼けし子を
助け得ずして今も悔いる母
A mother still grieves, unable to save the child trapped and burned in the bombing.
叔母の背にゆかた模様の焼け跡を
白く残して八月めぐる
On my aunt’s back, the yukata pattern remains—a white scar, returning each August.
注釈 / Notes
¹ 7番（人のかげ）
この短歌に出てくる「人のかげ」は、実際にあった出来事を指します。広島の住友銀行前で、爆心地近くに座っていた人の跡が、原爆の閃光と熱線によって石に焼き付けられ、まわりが白く漂白された中に黒い人影だけが残ったもので、「人影の石」として知られています。
The shadow described here refers to an actual case in front of the Hiroshima branch of Sumitomo Bank. Before the bomb detonated, someone had been sitting on the front steps. The intense heat from the blast bleached the stone, except for where the person had been. A dark human shadow remained seared into the granite.
² 11・33番（abura）
原爆投下後の広島では、医師や看護師も被爆し、多くの病院が倒壊・焼失して、医療品もほとんど手に入らない状態でした。そのため、火傷を負った人々に対しては、身近にある食用油を塗ることくらいしかできず、それが苦痛を和らげるための応急処置として使われました。
In Hiroshima after the bombing, many doctors and nurses were also victims, and most hospitals were destroyed or burned down. Medical supplies were nearly impossible to obtain. As a result, cooking oil—readily available in homes—was often the only thing people could apply to burn wounds, serving as a form of emergency pain relief.
³ 18番（中風）
中風（chufu）とは、日本語で「脳卒中による半身不随」を意味します。この句では、中風の伯母を背負って逃げる様子が詠まれています。
chufu — A Japanese word for ‘paralysis due to stroke.’ In this context, it refers to an aunt who had been paralyzed by stroke, being carried on the back of a fleeing family member during the bombing.
⁴ 23番（パリパリ・黒い雨）
パリパリは日本語の擬音語で「乾いたものが割れる音」。ここでは破れた傘に黒い雨が当たる音を表します。黒い雨とは、原爆後に降った放射性降下物を含む雨のことです。
‘Paripari’ is a Japanese onomatopoeia expressing a brittle, crackling sound. Here it describes the sound of radioactive black rain hitting a torn umbrella.
Black rain refers to the radioactive rainfall that occurred after the atomic bombing, carrying soot and radioactive particles. It darkened the sky and further spread radiation exposure.
⁵ 33番（よそ者）
「よそ者」という言葉には、静かな悲しみが込められています。両親の生まれた村でさえ、別の街で暮らしているという理由で、親戚から「よそ者」と呼ばれました。当時の社会の空気もあったのかもしれませんが、その言葉には、その時に感じた深い悲しみが表れています。
The term *“outsider”* carries a quiet sorrow. Even in the villages where one’s parents were born, those living in another town might be called outsiders—even by relatives. Perhaps it reflected the social atmosphere of the time, but the word still conveys the deep sadness felt in that moment.