夜曲

A swarm of bloodthirsty ants, drawn to rotting flesh, I watch the lonely scenery with a blank expression.

Losing you, love and hate become clear; losing you, what else is there to care about?

When doves no longer symbolize peace, I'm finally reminded that what's fed in the square are vultures.

I use beautiful rhymes to describe a love that's been completely plundered.

Ah, dark clouds begin to shroud, the night is unclean; in the park, echoes of a funeral fly across the sky.

The white roses I gave you wither in pure black surroundings; crows on the branches are eerily quiet.

Listen quietly, my black coat wants to warm your increasingly cold memories, the life we've walked through, walked through.

Ah, mist fills the air; in the empty graveyard, I still love you even after growing old.

I play Chopin's Nocturne for you, mourning my dead love.

Like the sound of the night wind, the heartbreak sounds beautiful.

My hands lightly tap the keys, my longing for you is so careful.

The place where you're buried is called the underworld.

I play Chopin's Nocturne for you, mourning my dead love.

And I hide my identity for you, playing the piano under the moonlight.

The sensation of your heartbeat is still so warm and close.

I miss your bright red lip print.

Those broken-winged dragonflies scatter across this forest, and my eyes show no sympathy.

Losing you, tears are murky; losing you, even my smile has shadows.

The wind on the moss-covered roof mocks my sorrow, like a dry well without water.

I use tragic fonts to depict the love that is too late for regret.

I play Chopin's Nocturne for you, mourning my dead love.

Like the sound of the night wind, the heartbreak sounds beautiful.

My hands lightly tap the keys, my longing for you is so careful.

The place where you're buried is called the underworld.

I play Chopin's Nocturne for you, mourning my dead love.

And I hide my identity for you, playing the piano under the moonlight.

The sensation of your heartbeat is still so warm and close.

I miss your bright red lip print.

A swarm of bloodthirsty ants, drawn to rotting flesh, I watch the lonely scenery with a blank expression.

Losing you, love and hate become clear; losing you, what else is there to care about?

When doves no longer symbolize peace, I'm finally reminded that what's fed in the square are vultures.

I use beautiful rhymes to describe a love that's been completely plundered.