O pray tell, ghost of Spring,
if then cherry blossoms withered,
Be my reverie of youth a lie?
Fade, the misleading light of Fae,
As in this defiled Earth,
So would in the Pure Land beyond,
The spite for the living, o I,
A waif among the rabbles, as though
My proud inheritance be gone.
Yet by whose name I once craved marriage,
Enwrapped in the decay of the flesh, I
Wish to be reborn in filth as if Phoenix
From the mortal Ash.
O the spite for the living,
If this Spring does not last long,
I'd rather perish along, while it is still young.
By whose light then have i been inebriated,
And by what divine impulse must I sing.
The land of Fae, O a wet dream of midsummer night,
Call me perverted or perverse as you wish.
Lyre, sweet and free doth play,
With neither wanton promise nor mortal zeal.
Must I lie, or else let the world be in ruin,
And the Man perish, freed from tragedy.
O frail bubbles, carrying mortal gleam,
Dancing amidst the mourning rain of June.
Although the cherry blossoms have withered and would dance no more,
The bubbles of rainbow-hued whims, blown free,
All while a shallow dream on the back of the tiger.