This is the tragic beauty of life,
The last thing we keep for ourselves,
Wondering forever at future and past
Torn apart by the present we have.
This is the climax we wait for to come
Since the play's begun to unfold.
Though the words disappear as if there were none
The actor's to speak, inspite of his willing or not.
And if he asks for the reasons,
Deep inside afraid of the truth,
The lonely wind, that is able to change the seasons,
Will whisper to him as if to soothe:
"Who knows the beauty of soul
Which rises within from the depths
It lives in the world of its own
And dies its magnificent death."
This is the tragic beauty of life,
The last thing we keep for ourselves,
Wondering forever at future and past
Torn apart by the present we have.