Akaska

A priest from the capital.

A priest of Akaska.

Really the ghost of the robber Kumasaka Nocho Han.

Chorus.

Over the mountains, down the Omi road by a foam-flaxed stream, and through the woods of Awazu, over the long bridge of Seta, heavily my footfall clangs.

In the bamboo woods of Noji I await the dawn.

There, where the morning dew lies thick, over the green field plain, green in name only, for the leaves are red with autumn, in evening sunshine to the village of Akaska I am come.

Kumasaka.

Where did these waters come from, and where do they go, and what's the story of this river? It is in

our family's DNA of growing up going to, you know, Yankton or Chamberlain or Akaska fishing, right? And even years later when two members of our family are in the car and we drive to Yankton or Chamberlain or wherever, whoever sees the water first makes a big deal about it.

I saw the water first.

You know what I mean? We just still scream it at our family and no one else knows what we're talking about.