Reay，慢速的脈搏在0.8x里拉長(zhǎng)，

霓虹像糖漿滴進(jìn)眼眶，

我按下倒帶，讓心跳失焦，

你的名字在鼓點(diǎn)里反復(fù)融化。

低音把夜?fàn)C出一個(gè)洞，

我們漂浮，像未寄出的信，

節(jié)奏拖著影子后退，

一秒被拆成十片海。

Reay，請(qǐng)把呼吸調(diào)得更低，

讓未說(shuō)出口的，在混響里偷偷盛開(kāi)。

Reay, the skyline bends to hear your name,

neon raindrops spell it on the glass;

I follow every letter, barefoot through the after-hours,

where the bass still pulses like a second heart.

You left your echo in the wires, a silver thread I breathe—

I sing it back against the dusk, a low and reckless vow.

If the city burns tomorrow, let it burn in your key;

I’ll cradle every ember, call it memory, call you home.