Резултати претраге

COLORS

I’ll bring along a single dust-covered treasure
and make a wish.
I brush it off a bit with the innocence I’d given up on.
 
Even if I throw it away, I can’t get rid of it.¹
It’s crammed in the depths of my desk.
The roadmap to my future, marbled and stained—²
 
Those borrowed puddles were vaguely dyed,
blurring the fragments of someone’s feelings.
The weather looks good—a gradation that spans the sky.
 
Rainbow-colored cruise packed with junk, soar!
I’ll cast a shining shadow on this richly-colored, unfriendly town.
Without a destination, a compass, or a mast,
I’ll sail on to the event horizon.
 
I gathered up so much that I couldn’t carry it all,
a treasury of infinite value.
After locking it up, I forgot all about it.
I’m starting to remember that vividness.
 
The wind’s direction looks good—coordination from the helmsman.
 
Rainbow-colored cruise packed with junk, soar!
I’ll cast a shining shadow on this richly-colored, unfriendly town.
Without a destination, a compass, or a mast,
I’ll sail on to the event horizon.
 
I’ve gotta be the same as them. I’ve gotta do the same as them.
A monochrome picture, a one-colored palette.
What do I want to do?
 
Let’s toss it all out there, the entire ship!
By bundling up all the unnecessary things,
I’ll make a mess of the world.
 
A station where the regrets I’ve left behind come raining down.
I dug my feet in and couldn’t move.
But when I cut off the sealing wax on each of the unaddressed envelopes hidden in the drawer,
I see that they’re all written invitations.
The coloring signs³
are a gradation that dyes the sky.
 
Rainbow-colored cruise, in order to fill that void,
I’ll cross over that richly-colored sea of entwining gray area.
I’ll turn the wind bearing down on me into energy,
and sail higher and higher,
to the event horizon.
 

Prayer of Machina

My twisted desire for salvation has weathered away.
If you won’t even sear it onto my retinas, then—
 
“──────”
Someone else will decide
“──────”
tomorrow’s meal for you, too.
 
It’s written in fate.
Please, do not save our frail selves.
 
I gaze at the painted-over sky.
The ceiling is thick like an oil painting.
“Freedom,”
The word was said almost like a prayer.
 
I want to make certain of it—
that I wasn’t forced to choose it or anything.
Hey, Machina...
 
I started to struggle amidst the pouring rain.
I won’t hand over a single one of my mud-covered footprints.
 
I break off a branch of the acacia.
“Take a look.”
Muddled with noise, the record sings of a broken back.
 
The disseminating, comfortable recommendation of salvation is wrong.
I’ll deem that pulsation to be correct, gracelessly.
 
“WARNING!”
“STOP!”
 
We don’t need any salvation.
 
I gaze at the trampled gods.
With ignorance thick like pigment on an oil painting,
“Freedom,”
the rain fails to mingle with my tears.
 
I want to make certain of it—
the conclusion that threw off the book balance.
Hey, Machina...
 
I want to drown in this stolen flattery,
and yet, prayer soup is served on a silver plate.
But if this world will never go the way I want,
then it’s better that way.
 
Outside of my collapsed understanding
is a convenient pantheism.
I want to deny this sophistry.
I can get back up again, so—
 
Such cruel yet beloved outrageousness is called a miracle, isn’t it?
I recall those footprints.
 
I gaze at the painted-over sky.
The ceiling is thick like an oil painting.
“Freedom,”
The word was said almost like a prayer.
 
I want to make certain of it—
that I wasn’t forced to choose it or anything.
Hey, Machina...
 
I started to struggle amidst the pouring rain.
I won’t hand over a single one of my mud-covered footprints.
 
I break off a branch of the acacia.
“Take a look.”
I lift the needle from the record.
I don’t need
the song of prayer anymore.
Deus Ex Machina!
 

The Idol's Religious Involuntary Manslaughter

A message pandering to popularity,
I laugh, I embellish, I sympathize,
and along to a topic-adorned subculture,
I’ll dance, I’ll sing into the morning!
 
I’m ignorant of any balls without written invitations.
I’ve put on my glass slippers!
“Ah, wait up. Can I upload that photo to Instagram later?”
“Sure~”
 
I want you to look at me more.
My shattered individuality, the words of my life

Crossbody Front

A rerun of that TV drama flashes back.
I’d thought I was just watching it out of habit, but,
 
it makes me honestly say, “Strangely enough,
he was that kind of person,” after making sure that was the right answer.
 
This sort of thing isn’t like me.
I’m not that kind of person.
I wonder if that means I’m in love...
 
I don’t want to see you!
If we end up meeting now, then surely
the white line that I’ve been so noncommittally drawing up until “now” will be lost in the wind.
Ah! Every time I blink, we meet again!
My sour expression is thanks to you and the sun.
I want to hand over all of the unfair feelings deep in my heart,
a crossbody halation*.
 
Starring in that kind of youth-oriented commercial
you often see around—what a complete pipe dream.
 
Virgin Romance and love and whatnot—
I thought they were all fantastical forgeries.
 
I just can’t brush them off,
I can’t give them up.
You’ve just about got me completely surrounded.
 
I don’t want to see you!
If we end up meeting now,
then by all accounts,
the pilot who’s been getting so bent out of shape up until “now” will be fired? Give me a break!
I swam through the asphalt. This is the front line of my battle.
I sit before you, pretending to retie my undone shoelaces.
I want to put another uncertain 100 miles between us,
a crossbody halation.
 
I don’t want to see you!
If we end up meeting now, then surely
the white line that I’ve been so noncommittally drawing up until “now” will be lost in the wind.
Ah! Every time I blink, we meet again!
My sour expression is thanks to you and the sun.
I want to hand over all of the unfair feelings deep in my heart,
a crossbody halation.
 

Seeking From the Mirage

“If you only walk just a little bit further, you’ll find an oasis.”
I shake off that familiar voice. I was looking at an illusion.
 
If the light ties up the false images, projecting hope, then
any elapsed time will also reverse. Though, perhaps that is cruel.
 
If I could only be forgiven, then I’d entrust my body to the white cloth
and leave everything to a momentary peace.
 
Was the one who heard the words
“don’t grow old and die!” myself from days of old?
 
The guide for the route I’d trod
was but a mirage.
Though I continued to grow old, I sought it out,
even if all that resulted was a broken traveler’s gravestone.
 
“I’ll be waiting just up ahead.” That voice, that blurry face
cling to me. How far have I walked?
 
The light casts shadows, as if sewing them together.
Dragging my captive along, I conduct the requiem.
 
I feel the pain of the smouldering coals of atonement
because the very firewood I nurtured burned me up as kindling.
 
I’ll unload the baggage I’ve shouldered and end this.
I’ll rest for just a little bit under the shade of a tree.
I’ll forget about it and move on.
Even if it’s only in my dreams, I’m saved.
 
Like watching the continuation of a dream,
a face surfaces in the morning mist.
Even that outline, though I can’t quite remember it,
was kind enough to grant me a smile.
 
I reached out my hand to the illusions
of olden days, crying “don’t leave me behind!”
I’ve arrived at the grounds of obsession.
It is the mirage.
Though I continued to grow old, I sought it out,
enclosing within it a broken traveler...