Flowers are withering in between the mountains and meadows Flowers are withering just like tears In this place where winter passed through In this place where only the wind remains Flowers are withering, flowers are withering In between the mountains and meadows
On the faded paper in my old, worn-out wallet Written in pink letters is your name, something that I shouldn’t have I follow the image of your back, like a mother who lost her child I can’t remember the street where I let go of your hand
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