季節は次々死んでいく (Seasons die one after another)

Romaji:
Kisetsu wa tsugitsugi shindeiku zetsumei no koe ga kaze ni naru
Iromeku machi no yoenai otoko tsuki wo miageru no wa koko ja busui
Doro ni ashi motsureru seikatsu ni ame wa ARUKOORU no aji ga [bad word] APASHII na me de samayou machi de kyodoufushin no INOSENTO ekimae nite
Boku ga boku to yobu ni wa futashika na hantoumei na kage ga ikiteru fuu da
Ame ni utaeba kumo wa wareru ka nigiyaka na natsu no hikarabita inochi da
Haikei imawashiki kako ni tsugu zetsuen no shi
Saitei na hibi no saiaku na yume no zangai wo sutete wa yukezu koko de ikitaeyou to
Kousei hana wa saki kimi ni tsutau hensen no shi
Kunou ni mamirete nageki kanashimi sore demo todaenu uta ni hi wa sasazu to mo [bad word] wa tsugitsugi shindeiku seite mo oitsukezu kako ni naru
Ikiisoge bokura tomoru hi wa setsuna ikiru imi nado wa ato kara tsuku
Kimi ga kimi de iru ni wa futashika na fuantei na jiga ga kimi wo kiraou to
Semete utaeba yami wa hareru ka negusareta yume ni azukatta inochi da
Haikei imawashiki kako ni tsugu zetsuen no shi
Saitei na hibi no saiaku na yume no zangai wo sutete wa yukezu koko de ikitaeyou to
Kousei hana wa saki kimi ni tsutau hensen no shi
Kunou ni mamirete nageki kanashimi sore demo todaenu uta ni hi wa sasazu to mo
Tsukareta kao ni ashi wo hikizutte terikaesu yuuhi ni kao wo shikamete
Ikou ka modorou ka nayami wa suru kedo shibaraku sureba arukidasu senaka
Sou da ikaneba naranu nani wa naku to mo ikiteyuku no da
Bokura wa douse hirotta inochi da koko ni oiteiku yo nakenashi no
Haikei ima wa naki kako wo omou boukyou no shi
Saitei na hibi ga saiaku na yume ga hajimari datta to omoeba zuibun tooku da
Douse hana wa chiri rinne no wa ni kaeru inochi
Kunou ni mamirete nageki kanashimi sore demo todaenu uta ni hi wa sasazu to mo
Kisetsu wa tsugitsugi ikikaeru

English:
The seasons die out, one after another; the cries of their annihilation swing by with the wind.
man unenchanted by this colourful city, looks up at the moon and notices how unrefined this place is.
Amidst an everyday life with legs tangled in the mud, the rain tasted of alcohol…
…wandering the city bearing eyes filled apathy, innocent people behave suspiciously as they gather in front of the station.
In order for me to remain myself, my translucent, unstable entity of a shadow, seems to have come to life.
If I were to sing in the rain, would the clouds part? My life’s utterly dried-out amid a bustling summer!
This is a poem of Goodbye, I bid to you, Dear My Loathsome Past.
I have to cast off the ruins of all these worst possible days, of all these dreams there’s no worse of, even if it costs me my last breath.
In your life to come, a flower will bloom to tell you a poem of transition:
song drenched in distress, followed by grief and sorrow, but even so, remains indomitable – should the sun refuse to shine upon it.
Tomorrows die out, one after another; even if you hurry up, they’ll become the past whenas you fail catching up to them.
For us who rush through life, our flames only last a moment’s time, and we’ll find our meaning in life only by living it.
In order for you to remain yourself, your unsteady, unstable entity of an ego, goes out of its way to despise you.
If you were able to so much as sing, would the darkness be dispelled? Your life has been left in the hands of a dream rotted at its root!
This is a poem of Goodbye, I bid to you, Dear My Loathsome Past.
I have to cast off the ruins of all these worst possible days, of all these dreams there’s no worse of, even if it costs me my last breath.
In your life to come, a flower will bloom to tell you a poem of transition:
song drenched in distress, followed by grief and sorrow, but even so, remains indomitable – should the sun refuse to shine upon it.
We drag our feet across the ground wearing worn-out expressions; scowling at the glare of the setting sun,
We wonder if we should keep going, or turn back on. But after a fair amount of decision-making, we flatten our backs up straight, and continue marching onward.
That’s right! We have to keep going! Even with nothing in our possession, we have to keep living life.
After all, we’ve picked our lives up somewhere along the road, so we’ll leave them here as we carry on, what little they are.
This is a poem of nostalgia, I dedicate to you, Dear My Deceased Past.
If I’d think all of those worst possible days, and all of those dreams there was no worse of, were merely the beginning, they seem so far off.
These flowers will eventually come to wilt, with our lives returning to the endless cycle of death and rebirth:
song drenched in distress, followed by grief and sorrow, but even so, remains indomitable – should the sun refuse to shine upon it.
The seasons come back to life, one after another.