Aokigahara

It is over. My virtue is gone.
And I shouldn’t pretend I’m not wicked.
I am running away from your gun,
I still hope to escape through the wicket…

In this world we’ve got no one to trust,
Everybody is constantly lying,
And my mind is beginning to rust,
I’m the one you can never rely on…

You are garbage. You shouldn’t exist.
Are you even a human, I wonder?
Beast, begone! I am clenching my fists,
And the answer is given: the thunder.

Go away! I would willingly pray,
If our God did not live in dictators.
He might mockingly send me a ray
To remind me that we are spectators…

In the forest, so sombre and dark,
Is your doom inexorably waiting,
Yet you’re leaving the tiniest spark
And keep calling your death aggravating…

But it’s not - if I kill you inside,
If your spirit’s wiped out of existence.
I shall claim that a part of me died,
Contemplating their smiles from a distance…

They look happy… My God, I’m relieved.
In this forest forever abiding,
Will I ever regret that they live,
While I’m bound to be shamefully hiding?

In this forest, so dismal and grim,
Little angel was brutally slaughtered.
In my memories, blurry and dim,
I recall she was once someone’s daughter….

You are trapped. You’ve got nowhere to run.
You are rubbish - who’s going to pick it?
It is over: your virtue is gone,
And you have to admit you are wicked.