Why did he choose to come to my door, the wandering youth, when the day dawned? 

As I come in and out I pass by him every time, and my eyes are caught by his face. 

I know not if I should speak to him or keep silent.  Why did he choose to come to my door?

The cloudy nights in July are dark; the sky is soft blue in the autumn; the spring days are restless with the south wind. 

He weaves his songs with fresh tunes every time. 

I turn from my work and my eyes fill with the mist.  Why did he choose to come to my door.