The settling in sun is a mighty lie,
For what's not born how can it die,
In this hideous world with nothing to try,
I see only pain which is not only mine,
With happy face and sad eyes,
Who wants to live and yet cannot cry;
Wandering in the marshes and land,
With the picturesque beauty of life,
I see only death which cannot be mine,
For what's not born how can it die;
Prancing around the deathbed of this shallow life,
I see only misery of this painful yet a wonderful lie,
Thinking again for one last time,
For what's not born how can it die.

.    .    .