We are saddened by a bird's cry, but not a fish's blood; Blessed are those with voices. If those dolls had voices, I bet each and everyone would scream "I don't want to be a human." (Alternate translation from one of the dubbed versions)

Charlie Chaplin is the greatest director of the screen. He's a pioneer. How he knows women!—oh, how he knows women! I do not cry easily when seeing a picture, but after seeing Charlie's A Woman of Paris I was all choked up—I wanted to go out in the garden and have it out by myself.

If they cry for their parents, they are beaten severely, sometimes hanged upside down from trees and even branded or burned with cigarettes.

[last line] The spell was broken. My uncle learned to laugh, and I learned to cry. The secret garden is always open now. Open, and awake, and alive. If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.

Our next war will be fought for the highest interests of our country and of mankind. This will invest it with importance in the world's history. "World power or downfall" will be our rallying cry.

I feel lonely as I gaze at the moon. I feel lonely as I think about myself, and I feel lonely as I ponder upon this wretched life of mine. I want to cry out that I am lonely, but no one asks me how I feel.

I am ashamed of the polished words,
so I hide them
throwing rough and crude notes
like the Rondanini Pietà
still raw with matter
on the lines of crystal
like the soul that sparkles in one’s eyes.
...

Charlie Chaplin is the greatest director of the screen. He's a pioneer. How he knows women!—oh, how he knows women! I do not cry easily when seeing a picture, but after seeing Charlie's A Woman of Paris I was all choked up—I wanted to go out in the garden and have it out by myself.

My song can make you cry, take you by surprise
At the same time, can make your dry your eyes with the same rhyme
See what you're seeing is a genius at work
Which to me isn't work, so it's easy to misinterpret it at first

Does it not move you strangely, the love-bird's cry, tonight when, like the drifting snow, memory piles up on memory?

And it doesn't seem to matter, and it doesn't seem right,
'Cause the will has brought no fortune, still I cry alone at night,
Don't you judge of my composure, 'cause I'm bothered every day,
And she didn't leave a letter, she just up and ran away.