Mom, why is that
the things we were brought up with
are destroyed by ourselves, as the days keep coming?
The collage breaks into pieces
but itÂ’s not thrown away
ThereÂ’s nothing in my hands
even when youÂ’re holding them...
Be my last... be my last...
Be my last... be my last...
Please you have to be my last...
Unknown friends told me to do my best
But this love was a mistake
No, it wasnÂ’t a mistake
ThereÂ’s nothing to grasp with my hands..
how far will this dream go?
With my hands With my hands
With my hands With my hands
With my hands, be my last...
Rather than being together some day,
I would be with you tonight, just for a hour
Who is the adult,
whoÂ’s connected hand is still empty?
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