Hey, if night comes like this, I wonder what will become of us.
Should we ride a train somewhere? I guess anywhere is fine with me.
You may not understand yet, but the sky is made of words too.
I see-if it's the town next door, I'll come along.
Fluttering, fluttering, fluttering down.
On the sunlit plain, the song you sing, the hepatica.
I don't need anything else.
On the turbulent summer plain, tears never run dry, the evening cries-evening, evening, evening.
Summer is ending and moving on, you know.
Yeah, that's right.
Hey, when we grow up someday, what will we become?
Do you have something you want to do? I think I'd like to see that.
You'll probably forget, but memories are the only things that are real.
I see; if it's ahead on the road, I'll follow you.
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Softly, softly.
Softly, softly.
The floral wind, as it sways the hepatica.
We don't need any words.
On the summer plain where you stand, your hair billowing, you cry as the rain ushers in the evening-evening, evening, evening.
Summer is ending and moving on, isn't it?
Yeah, that's right.
I see, you've grown up.
Anxiously, anxiously, fluttering down.
On the sunlit plain, the song you recite, the hepatica.
I don't need anything else.
On the turbulent summer plain, tears not running dry; the dusk is evening-evening, evening, evening.
Summer is ending and moving on, isn't it.
I'll stay here, you know.
You'll go on to the far distance, won't you.
Yeah, that's right.