On a short summer night halfway through the season, with lies making me dizzy To doubt them would be somehow despicable I recognized those white, white arms under the sunlight If I were to forget... could they warm me up from freezing of cold? What’s more, at this rate it doesn’t matter if I don’t go back and forth Snow on a bamboo hat proves that nature causes disasters Before it turns black, I’ll go to work in the fields I blame the hope of that summer in saying that the hard times are over If I look up at the sky... a pair of sal trees tempts me in gray [1] What’s more, at this rate I’m not sick of the lack of complexity If I meet someone, I’ll take back my memories If I make my throat work, you’ll spill over and overflow ...I don’t want to know any more than this What’s more, at this rate it’s all right if I can just stay asleep Ah! The nape of your neck is surely now already letting the pure-white chance pass by