In this disordered dream
Our blades howl at each other
The blue crescent moon rises
The wind is clad in red
And straddles fate
The flowers weave in their performance
The afterglow of fate
That we wield in the eleventh hour
Of the fleeting pinnacle of time
We can only dream.
We are called by the moment that cannot wait
The throbbing scent of summer is painful
We are shot dead, and with our ecstasy
We are cut down to the depths of hell
We are invited in, as though in a dance.
Now, in this disordered dream
Our blades howl at each other.
The blue crescent moon rises
The wind is clad in red
And straddles fate.
The flowers weave in their performance
The sparks that fly out recklessly
From the afterglow of our passion
And only reflecting the glow of the changing times.
It keeps me going.
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