Leaving behind the sweet call (or call of rose)*
[and] this misty song at the moment of seperation,
Like rivers flowing quite long
I am leaving this city
Oh, like the dead.
If songs are now to shelter in a screech...
Like an endless fire...
It would be so easy to go away, if I didn't love...
Like a wounded bird...
This is the summer story of a brown boy,
I passed through [or away] from you with [my] songs
Keeping quiet for quite long time like lonely people,
I am imagining this city...
Oh, like a love.
If songs are now to shelter in a screech...
Like an endless fire...
It would be so easy to go away, if I didn't love...
Like a wounded bird...
I am imagining this city
Like a final love.