Am I a flower, a butterfly, or a demon?
Ah! Should I no longer be concerned about my body or this world?
What I wield is not a lipstick, but a piercing blade.
Would you be so kind as to give me plenty of praise?
I am a blooming flower, happy about my blooming, too.
Ah! However, a flower must scatter away at some point.
I can sever my fate, but cannot sever that child's life.
If I should have killed, only more infernal torture will await me.
I am a withered flower, the flower bud of a demon.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot stop my being dyed crimson.
To me, neither the lipstick nor that child is needed.
Someday, please kindly allow me to change back into a flower bud.