The strumming fingertips are like the waning moon, an indistinct flame illuminating the path beyond these scattered days.
In the sound that remains after the cold echoes disappear, the night continues, permeating far and wide.
A road leading to the moon, a faint scent, a corner of my hazy field of view...
I got it wrong because they say that it's a simple thing - I was crying?
The color that I painted is a little different from the sky I wished for, somehow.
With the distorted stage at my back, I was paralyzed, unable to move,
And next thing I knew, I'd come to a distant, faraway place,
All alone.
On the underside of my restless, insignificant heart, past, present, and future linger a distance away, but never far.
I sing as though spitting out - bitter feelings, a brief passing rain.
They that it's a simple thing, but I doubted it - I was crying.
A voice like the sea spilled out, echoing through the silence.
With my hands covering my ears from the ringing, unable to pull away,
I looked down, and I'd come to a distant, elevated place,
All alone, carrying nothing.
Strumming fingertips and the sight of the waning moon, announcing to the scattered days the end and the beginning.
The sound that surfaces, riding on glittering words, takes the quivering memories to an unexplored world.
The color that I painted is a little different from the sky I wished for,
But then I uncovered my ears and stretched out my hands.
Every single thing that disappeared beyond my reach has let me become who I am,
All alone, the only one of me.