the pressed flower recalls memories in the evening sky
to that time, when I would count on my fingers, the days until we met.
in the good ol' days of clear blue skies the broken dream and to my sorrow,
the endless evidence of my crime,one night voiceless is spring.

drowning in the evening, when it was still cold
I saw the early blossoming cherry blossoms
and there she stood underneath them, but that's an old story.
in those days she was lovely and so beautiful
and yet something about her face seemed sad,
you see, she was hiding the tears of the dusk behind that long hair

this place reflects you and even the many things I'd forgotten
you, fragile and drained of color, and the monochrome scars.
in the good ol' days of clear bule skies the broken dream and
what's sinful is I caught a glimps of,
the one night spring in which vice groaned within.

The show booth

I saw you, in the cold daybreak,
still letting others control you, unable to do anything,
the tears trickling down your face, like flower petals.

the pressed flower recalls the memories in the evening sky
to that time, when I would count on my fingers, the days until we met.
under the blossoming cherry blossoms behind the booth illuminated in the dusk
if only for now the scars you hide behind your sleeves would disappear
in the good ol' days of clear blue skies the broken dream and
to my sorrow, the endless evidence of my crime,
one night voiceless is spring.