A beast writhes within me
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Rising to the water's surface, appearing, then fading-
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The beast that moves me
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A tautology- foam in my clenched hands
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Rather than thinking of passing clouds
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I howl into the far distance
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With no time even to catch my breath
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In that suffocating feeling
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Leisurely, leisurely- burn the dream
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With the pure, pure white of the soul
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I only want to set fire to a day of joy
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Imagination is just fleeting pocket money
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With these hands that hold uncooled words
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Counting things that won't burn away
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I only want to save them
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Each and every one, take a look
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Letting out the sound that's been boiling within
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Blow out the candle's flame
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Is nothing but ridiculous pedantry
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Why is it that, at passing clouds
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There's no time even to grieve
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Yes, yes- just one thing in imagination
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Give the lonely me a sun
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Set fire- set fire to joy for me
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Even impatience is just fleeting money
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With my suffering hands
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Counting things that won't burn away
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I only want to grasp them
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Half in doubt, covered in wounds, and still
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Whether it's supernatural power, fiction,
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Or even escapism- anything is fine
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Leisurely, leisurely- burn the dream
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With the pure, pure white of the soul
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I only want to set fire to a day of joy
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Go beyond imagination itself
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With these hands that hold uncooled words
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Even everything that has burned out-
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