The strange boots I had been polishing alone looked odd in the crowd.
They were floating.
Bowing in a dance of talent, I move awkwardly.
Amadeus, who shows his teeth and smiles, wouldn't understand.
From somewhere, I hear someone's voice.
It was the same as mine, a twisted and lonely song.
Losing the melody, an improvised Lorelei; Bach rings from within a box.
Dancing on a raised stage.
All night I've been happy, and it's almost gone.
I haven't seen anything else in those beautiful eyes.
I wonder how I look.
The strange phrases I pluck alone-who are they for, since there is no addressee.
I was listening.
Only you take the steps, and I bow awkwardly.
I can't meet Amadeus at a moment like this.
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Losing the melody, an improvised Lorelei; Bach rings from within the box.
Dancing on a raised stage.
All night I've been happy, and it's almost gone.
I haven't seen anything else in those beautiful eyes.
In the aria that breaks with anxiety and self-questioning, all of my body
Is being scraped at and the stage is dyed.
Is that really my color?
Not resembling anything else; if I stay in that awkward form.
Only in your eyes would it look like that.
From somewhere I hear a different voice-my own.
Probably I'll stay here forever; going in circles is fine.
Voices after voices as the score is cast aside, Bach ringing in spirals.
Dancing with a freedom so vast you can't catch up.
Even if we stay happy all night, it won't run out.
I haven't seen anything else in those beautiful eyes.
That's probably how my appearance would look, right?