Резултати претраге

Tulip

Me, who was dyed to the core.
I can't change the color now.
Me, who told stories.
Taking the run-up route to an afterword.
 
You, who untangled everything.
Your empathy waxed and waned.
Is it just going to end like this?
At this prosaic turning point.
 
I don't need an award for excellence.
The color of the parting gift you gave me as you fade into the past becomes more vivid.
It's wildly painful.
 
Saying goodbye won't do anything
so at least make me feel cold.
The night you cut through was just a bit too large.
The whole time I knew about the state of affairs,
but I still held out for a sliver of light.
It's because I'm dumb,
but I want to keep hoping.
 
You, who changed your color.
You looked at me who had fallen apart.
It seemed that you had withdrawn the hand that you
had tried to hold out to me.
 
Even feeling encouraged by times trapped in melancholy,
those were your memories.
It hurts.
It hurts.
 
No matter how many times I wail that this can't be the end,
You shake your head to the side.
The light that grew cold
It's awfully pale
I tried to open my mouth and say that
it has to be the past, I don't care if it's the second time, but
what I closed will not come back.
 
Let's transfer into a night broken in two
The scent of tulips fills up my dreams and invites tears
 
I can't do anything anymore
I can't even hold onto your sleeve.
 
Saying goodbye won't do anything
so at least make me feel cold.
The night you cut through was just a bit too large.
The two of us, so red, will end today
I've become the color you wished for, blending into the snow
Ah, it's so cold.
 

The tulip

Here I am, the tulip, a flower from Holland,
and such is my beauty that, for a single seed,
as long as I stand tall and straight and pure-hued,
the stingy Fleming is willing to trade diamonds.
 
My figure is feudal. Like a Yoland of old
clad in her pleated skirt, long and ample garment,
I wear fine heraldry painted on my vestment,
crimson laced with silver, violet striped with gold.
 
The divine gardener spun of his own making
the rays of sun itself and the purple of kings,
the softest gossamer a tailor would dream up.
 
Among all the flowers, none has my effulgence,
yet nature would, alas, not pour any fragrance
into my fine chalice, thin as a china cup.
 
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