Seasons die one after the other,
The voice of death becomes the wind.
A sober man, in a vivid city,
Looking at the moon seems just so bland here.

In a life stuck in quicksand, the rain tasted like wine,
With clouded eyes, wandering in the city,
I'm an innocent man acting suspicious at the station.

It's like a hazy shadow possessing life,
Which I can't clearly identify with myself,
If I sing in this rain, will the clouds break?
A droughty life in the blazing summertime.

Dear my ****** past,
This is a poem to break off relations.
Even if I breathed my last here,
With the remains of spiteful days and nightmares,

After ages, flowers will bloom and reach you,
This is a poem for change,
Even if I suffer and grieve,
With no light flashing onto this lasting song.

Tomorrows die one after the other,
Even if we hurry we never catch up,
And they become our past.
Live recklessly, spotlights last only a moment,
And the meaning of life will soon follow.

Even if your insecure self hates you,
Wondering who you really are,
When you sing, the darkness may clear up
But this is just a life given by a broken dream.

Dear my ****** past,
This is a poem to break off relations.
Even if I did my all,
Just to save what little time I had,

After ages, flowers will bloom and reach you,
This is a poem for change,
Even if I shout or shriek,
With no curtain falling onto this lasting pain.

With a weary face and kicking,
Frowning my face against the blinding sunset
"Should I turn back?" "Should I go?"
But soon I saw my feet taking off.

Yes I must go,
I must live, even if without meaning.
We are disposable lives after all,
We'll leave them here.

Dear my late past, This is a poem of nostalgia,
Just as I thought the horrible days and nightmares,
Were barely the beginning,
They were already left far behind.

Flowers bloom, sway and fall,
And return to this unending cycle of rebirth.
Even if I suffer and grieve,
Without a light to show the end to this lasting song.

Seasons come to life one after the other...