💀↓English sub↓💀

He comes softly,

when time wakes from the grave.

シャバの空気が一段と冷えた夜。

デスパレードの再来。

吸魂の王が歩み出した。

The wind folds backward,

like a curse reheated.

言葉よりも古い、泣き声。(鳴き声？)

誰もが倒れ伏すはずの道に、

今宵は、猫たちが踊り明かす。

"What the heck is that?"

にゃあ。

にゃあ。

にゃあ。

Trick or Treat, or Purr.

影を裂いて進む、仮装の軍勢。(ニャッ！ニャッ！)

尻尾の旗、灯りいらずのお目め。(ニャッ！ニャッ！)

その足音は、静かなる九魂のドラム。(ニャッ！ニャッ！)

The Lord halts — stunned.

沈黙の王が、立ち尽くす。

His smile — cracked silver.

He raises the key of hell.

but the cats, oh, the cats —

they meow in chorus.

「にゃんだい？今年は悪霊の出る幕ないニャ。」

A king who can steal only one soul could never beat a cat, meow.

【ひとつの身体から魂ひとつしか奪えない王様じゃ、猫には勝てないよ。にゃ。】

仮装が跳ねる。

orange, violet, and rust.

落陽がとけていく。

Decay melts into parade light.

The Lord whispers, almost tender —

"Endings… are allergic to rhythm."

そして風が肯(うべな)う。

風が、風が。風が、風が。猫たちと踊る。

夜は崩れ、

静寂は散るにゃ。

沈黙の底に鈴の音、ちりん。

騒々しい夜は歌のように溶けてゆく。

“Everything burns,”

he says,

“but cats — they burn brighter.”

燃える仮面。

燃える悪霊。

燃える自由。

朝が来る。

朝が、にゃあと。

朝が、また始まる。

The Lord of Samhain —

ただ、鍵を閉じる。

閉じる、門を。

閉じる、夜を。

閉じる、溜息を。

そして残るは、

笑い声。

鈴の音。

尻尾の波。

そして風が肯(うべな)う。

風が、風が。風が、風が。猫たちと踊る。

Like life.

Like purr.

🎃👻🎃👻🎅👻🎃👻🎃

He comes softly,

when time wakes from the grave.

The air of the living world chills sharper than ever.

The Desparade returns.

The Soul-Stealing King begins to walk.

The wind folds backward,

like a curse reheated.

A cry older than words.

Upon the road where all should have fallen,

tonight, the cats dance till dawn.

“What the heck is that?”

meow.

meow.

meow.

Trick or Treat, or Purr.

Shadows split open before the masked parade. (Nya! Nya!)

Tail-flags raised, eyes that need no light. (Nya! Nya!)

Their footsteps beat the silent drum of nine souls. (Nya! Nya!)

The Lord halts — stunned.

The King of Silence stands frozen.

His smile — cracked silver.

He raises the key of hell.

But the cats, oh, the cats —

they meow in chorus.

“What’s wrong, my lord?

No stage for ghosts this year, nya?”

A king who can steal only one soul

could never beat a cat, meow.

Masks leap high.

Orange, violet, and rust.

The sunset melts away.

Decay dissolves into parade light.

The Lord whispers, almost tender —

“Endings… are allergic to rhythm.”

And the wind agrees.

The wind, the wind.

The wind, the wind.

Dancing with the cats.

Night collapses,

and silence scatters, nya.

At the bottom of hush — a bell chimes, chirin.

The noisy night melts away like a song.

“Everything burns,” he says,

“but cats — they burn brighter.”

Burning masks.

Burning spirits.

Burning freedom.

Morning comes.

Morning, meows.

Morning begins again.

The Lord of Samhain —

simply closes the key.

Closes the gate.

Closes the night.

Closes the sigh.

And what remains:

Laughter.

Bells.

The wave of tails.

And the wind agrees.

The wind, the wind.

The wind, the wind.

Dancing with the cats.

Like life.

Like purr.