I’ll go searching, following this path…
Filling in the blank space,
I thought this theorem I posed was correct,
But it just ends up lightly treading air.
The future is warped,
And from the tiniest crack it twists and twists,
Diverging further from my ideal.
This lukewarm water,
Made the sound of growing cold:
If I’m planning on changing my path,
Now’s the time!
I don’t want a replica like this –
I’m fine only having things that can be called “real”.
I’ll go searching, following this path…
“But that’s just a well made fairy tale.”
I stare at the blank space where the answer vanished;
I thought I’d buried it here,
But no matter what, I can’t figure it out.
Even if you carefully raise a beautiful flower,
It will simply be trampled,
By dirty feet lacking hesitation.
Under the building white,
A tiny bud is steadily covered up;
The far, far off spring,
Is beneath the snow.
Things we can’t see, without fail,
Always fade from our memories.
As we forget the place we endeavor to search for,
We step upon that bud, unnoticing.
The flowers we made while relying on our memories all withered,
Not realized what was there at our feet…
The time go searching for,
A place we can call “real”,
Is surely now!
I don’t want a replica like this –
I’m fine only having things that can be called “real”.
I’ll go searching for you:
“Thank you for finding this tiny bud for me.”
You whispered.