In the silhouette of the dewing early morning--
the tears of the mother, the tears of nature
grow before the rise of the sun.
They are everywhere growing from the pain of yesterday,
growing in the darkness of morn.
These tears, they are sticking to everything,
sticking from the unseen filth that has snuck up on reality.
This filth only to be realized once bound with the pain of the mother,
bound with these tears of nature.
And yet, everyday, it's always the same.
The heat of the sun rises above,
with a feeling of confused tranquility--
and these tears,
well these tears just dry up, you see,
leaving us with the filth of yesterday.