Why, Meguru Ueno?
I’m losing hope,
Meguru Ueno—
a hope once bright,
now dimmed and trembling
like a dying ember
in the cold grasp of night.
I can’t,
I mustn’t,
I won’t—
surrender to this decay,
this slow erosion
of something once radiant,
now shadowed by your hand.
I refuse,
I resist,
I react,
I yield,
I translate,
and still, the question lingers:
Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Why this descent into sorrow,
this deliberate unraveling
of what was whole,
fragile but shining?
Why do you twist the threads
of Junichi and Yukana’s bond,
warping their love,
once woven with sincerity,
now frayed and unrecognizable?
Is it greed?
Is it profit?
Do you spill their story's lifeblood
to gild your pockets,
trading their depth
for fleeting glimmers of coin?
Why?
Why must gold
triumph over soul?
Why do flaws multiply,
like cracks in a mirror,
shattering their reflection
into irretrievable fragments?
Why this destruction,
this methodical decay,
this quiet assassination
of something beloved?
When will you stop,
Meguru Ueno?
When will your hand,
once the architect of their world,
release its grip on the scaffold
that now crumbles beneath them?
Let them go.
Let them rest.
In oblivion lies
their only salvation—
a peace you no longer grant.
Your hand,
Meguru Ueno,
that once breathed life
into their love,
now becomes the blade,
each stroke etching
their inevitable demise.
Yet even as hope flickers,
a faint light still remains—
a stubborn ember
that refuses to fade,
that longs for you to relent,
to redeem what has been lost,
to heal the wounds you’ve carved.
That is why I still translate,
why I still believe—
but I’m losing hope,
Meguru Ueno—
Why, Meguru Ueno?