Rain falling on an absence

I just spent a week in Wisconsin, camping in the forest and eating cheese curds. Consequently, the time leading up to the trip, and the time spent re-adjusting to city life has put a gap into the maintenance of my blog.

So here is some filler for that gap. Think of this as the insulating foam of my sequentially arranged thoughts.

Today's foam is my first poem written in Japanese.

一番目の日本の詩

背中が痛いですから
川へゆっくり歩いて行った。
雨が降り始めた。
私は雨に『何をするか』と聞いた。
雨は何も言わなかった。

Ichiban me no nihon no shi

Senaka ga itai desu kara
kawa yukkuri aruite itta.
Ame ga furi hajimeta.
Watashi wa ame ni "nani o suru ka?" to kiita.
Ame wa nani mo iwanakatta.

(my) Japanese Poem #1 (or First Japanese Poem)

Because my back hurt
I walked slowly to the river.
Rain began to fall.
I asked the rain: "What are you doing?"
The rain said nothing.

somethings in the something... daaaa da daaa

I acquired a song today while I was working. Unfortunately, I don't know the title or artist that sung it, and it is only in my head. I'm not even sure I have the lyrics right; I only know how it goes. I can sing two lines from it:

"[Something's] in the [bedroom], where we [lay].
The [moon] is always [over], when you [go away]."

The words in [brackets] are the words that I'm not sure of. Whatever is actually sung does sound somewhat close to to these words though. I've tried googling these lyrics, but I haven't been successful. I know that the version I heard today was a punk cover of the song, with a male vocalist; slightly sped up too.
The original version was popular about 3-6 years ago, I think, and was sung by a female vocalist with a fairly high voice; at a slightly slower speed than the punk version.
I would attach an audio file, but I don't have a microphone.
I should get one.

On the shore

The city is beautiful. It is like a giant shimmering lake of light, encroached upon on one side by a giant shimmering lake of liquid and jello quaking. The buildings tower and I sit still, like a rock on the edge of it. Boats swim and stream along the edges, near the rocks where I am one, and the water rushes in their wake; disturbed like a cup of soup in a shaky hand. The wake creates waves, rushing out ponderously from the boat's path. The path can be seen in the light that the city gives off, even when most of it is asleep. The stars barely make a mark in the sky; we are turned in upon ourselves, here in the big cities. The rest of the world and the galaxy and the universe hardly exist, compared to our work schedules and alarm clocks and appointments. The water rushes outward and slaps like a friend at the rocks, where I am one. Mist hovers above the lake, a parting gift from the heat of the day; one that will last through the night till the sun comes around again, coming up over the lake like a great big friend and a great big hug. The night won't last.