I don't know what makes me to long for the past,
Giving a painful sigh as deep as mist.
My lips are burning hot in the fire of thirst.

I dread the setting sun to fall down,
Gulping me down down down.
I'm still a life afloat, but can't lay down.

Such my life, such my heart, harder than ever.
I'm getting ill with fever.
I'm getting ill in my thinking.

Why adhere myself to old thought;
Shabby, pitiful, mean appearance
Being coated with tears and dust?

A painful obstinateness,
A stupid obstinateness,
It's that I can't abandon hollowness.