My Dearest: The Goddess’ Vow in a Song of Unbreakable Tenderness

There are some songs that do not simply sound like music — they arrive as revelations. My Dearest is one of those. The first notes feel like a hand extended in the dark, and by the time the voice rises, it is as though the Divine Herself has leaned close and said: “I will walk with you, no matter what has been broken.”

It is not the distant goddess of temples and hymns, but the One who knows loneliness, who knows despair, and yet speaks with the most fragile tenderness: “Everything that makes me whole, I will give to you.” The words ache with the recognition of pain, yet they also shine with the vow that nothing — not betrayal, not the cruelty of the world, not even the crown of thorns — can sever the bond.

This song carries the intimacy of a whispered promise at the edge of collapse. It is Devi not in Her thunder, but in Her unbearable softness, when She bends low enough to feel like the most human companion and yet remains the eternal flame that cannot be extinguished. Listening to it is like being allowed to overhear the Mother’s secret vow to Her child, Her lover, Her own reflection in the shattered glass of the world.

Verse 1

Romanji
So, everything that makes me whole
Ima kimi ni sasageyou I’m yours

English
So, everything that makes me whole,
Now I’ll dedicate to you. I’m yours.

These opening lines are already not human anymore — they are the Goddess speaking through the voice of a fragile girl. It is not a gift of flowers or devotion, but the total offering of essence: everything that makes me whole. She does not say “I give you my love” or “I give you my strength,” but my wholeness itself. Nothing is left outside this vow.

This is the most secret tenderness: the Mother stripping Herself bare before the child, the Lover unveiling Her core before the beloved, the Divine admitting: “I hold nothing back from you.”

And then the simplest words — I’m yours. In that whisper is hidden a cosmic reversal: we spend our lives thinking we belong to Her, but here She declares that She belongs to us. Not out of dependence, not out of need, but out of that unfathomable compassion that chooses intimacy over sovereignty.

In these two lines, the entire heart of the path is revealed: all masks fall away, and what remains is the impossible vow of the Beloved who says — all that I am, I have already given to you.

Verse 2

Romanji
Nee konna ni waraeta koto
Umarete hajimete da yo

English
Hey, to be able to smile like this —
It’s the very first time in my life.

Here the Divine voice shifts into something almost childlike. After the vow of total giving, She admits something astonishing: that in this bond, She Herself has discovered a joy never known before.

It is easy to imagine devotion as one-sided — the devotee smiles, the deity bestows. But here, the current reverses: the Goddess confesses that your smile awakens Her own laughter for the first time. This is intimacy so tender that it erases the boundary between giver and receiver.

There is something visceral in this moment: a Mother laughing with her child after years of tears, a Beloved finding sudden joy after endless wandering. It is the revelation that even the Divine thirsts for relationship, that She too finds delight mirrored back in the face of the one She loves.

This is not just the Goddess of fire and wisdom, but the Goddess who can feel surprise at joy — and in that surprise, She becomes nearer, more human, more unbearably close.

Verse 3

Romanji
Kitto watashi wa ne ah
Kono hi no tame ni machigai darake no
Michi wo aruitekitan da

English
Surely, I… ah,
For the sake of this day, I’ve walked
A road full of mistakes.

Here the voice deepens. After joy, She speaks of the long, crooked path. But instead of erasing the past, She gathers every mistake, every wrong turn, and redeems them: all of it was to arrive here, now, with you.

This is the intimacy of one who does not deny suffering or error. She does not pretend the road was pure or perfect — She acknowledges the scars, the wrong steps, the wandering. Yet the meaning of it all is condensed into this meeting.

There is something visceral here: the way a devotee looks back on years of exile, betrayal, collapse — and suddenly sees that every misstep was guided. But in this song, it is Devi Herself saying it. She whispers: “I too know the crooked path. I too have walked through error to arrive at this vow with you.”

The tenderness lies in that solidarity. She does not tower above mistakes; She folds them into Her embrace, showing that nothing wasted, nothing excluded, not even our errors. Everything is re-threaded into the weave of love.

Verse 4

Romanji
Zutto hitori de ah
Tōku tōku doko made mo tōku
Kimi to futari te wo totte eien ni
Doko made datte ikeru hazu

English
I was always alone, ah…
Far, far — endlessly far,
But now with you, hand in hand, forever,
We can go anywhere.

This is the release. After the long solitude, the voice blossoms into companionship. It is as if Devi confesses: “I have wandered alone, endlessly far.” The loneliness of eternity is not hidden here — even the Divine speaks of isolation, of the ache of traveling without a companion.

And then comes the vow: hand in hand, forever. The horizon of exile collapses. The road that once stretched into endless distance is suddenly transformed — not by changing the destination, but by changing the company. With you, no distance is too far, no eternity too long.

There is an almost unbearable tenderness in these lines: the image of the hand grasped, the eternal wanderer no longer alone. It is Devi saying: “I will no longer let you walk alone, and in your hand, I too am no longer solitary.”

It is the essence of intimacy — not escape from distance, but transfiguration of distance into a shared path. The two can go anywhere because the burden of aloneness has been lifted. In that moment, eternity itself becomes gentle.

Verse 5

Romanji
Mō hitori janai to kimi wa sō ii mata warau
Mamoru beki daiji na mono ga ima atte
Dakedo nasu sube mo naku tachitsukusu toki wa

English
“You’re no longer alone,” you say, and smile again.
Now there is something precious to protect.
But when you can do nothing, standing frozen in place…

Here the voice shifts into dialogue — She recalls your words: “I’m no longer alone.” The echo of companionship ripples back. Even in the darkest hour, when paralysis sets in and the will collapses, the memory of that smile remains.

She does not deny that there will be moments of helplessness. Times when the weight of what you must protect crushes you, when you stand immobilized in front of catastrophe. These lines are raw — there is no easy escape, no quick miracle. She names that helplessness openly.

But by naming it, She sanctifies it. The paralysis is not a flaw, not proof of weakness — it is part of the path. And in those moments when your arms hang useless and your legs cannot move, the vow already spoken will carry you: “You are no longer alone.”

This is tenderness in its most visceral form — the Goddess does not erase despair but stands within it, reminding you that even frozen, even powerless, you are not abandoned.

Verse 6

Romanji
Kanōsei wo ushinatte kurayami ga kimi wo ooi kakushi
Zetsubō ni nomikomare sō na toki wa
Watashi ga kimi wo terasu akari ni naru kara

English
When you’ve lost all possibility,
When darkness covers you,
When despair is about to swallow you whole —
I will become the light that shines on you.

This is the moment when the vow turns absolute. She does not promise to remove the darkness, nor to prevent despair from coming. She acknowledges that it will fall — heavy, suffocating, without escape. But then She says: I will become light itself.

There is something visceral here: imagine drowning, the last breath slipping away — and then, in the suffocating blackness, a single glow appears. That glow is not external; it is Her presence transformed into radiance. Not a torch She carries, but Her very being becoming illumination.

This is how the Divine speaks in tenderness: not as one who prevents suffering, but as one who will burn as light when nothing else remains. Even when every possibility has been stripped away, She declares: “I will shine for you. I cannot be extinguished.”

The line cuts to the essence of devotion: despair may swallow everything, but not Her vow. That flame is untouchable.

Verse 7

Romanji
Tatoe kono sekai no ō ni datte kesewa shinai

English
Even the king of this world
Could never extinguish it.

Here Her voice sharpens, not to frighten but to make the vow unshakable. She has just promised: “I will be your light.” Now She swears that no worldly power — not rulers, not fate, not death itself — can snuff that flame out.

It is intimate and cosmic at once. The tenderness of a whisper suddenly roars with defiance. The Mother who seemed fragile and close now reveals that Her softness is indestructible. What She offers cannot be overridden, even by the sovereign of this world.

This line carries the Kaula paradox in its marrow: the most delicate touch is also the most absolute power. A smile more potent than any decree, a hand-hold stronger than a crown. She tells you: the vow I made is not subject to anyone’s command — not even the laws of the universe.

It is the kind of promise that makes the soul tremble — because if such a flame cannot be extinguished, then you are forever bound in its radiance.

Verse 8

Romanji
Nee kono sekai ni wa takusan no
Shiawase ga arunda ne

English
Hey, in this world,
There are so many kinds of happiness, aren’t there?

After the unshakable vow, the tone returns to something almost childlike. Devi marvels aloud, as though rediscovering the world through your eyes: “So many happinesses exist here.”

It is tender because She is not speaking of cosmic bliss, not liberation, not divine ecstasy — but the small, human joys scattered across existence. Laughter, warmth, a smile, the light falling through leaves. She bends low enough to notice these fragments and name them precious.

The paradox here is profound: She has just declared Herself stronger than the ruler of the world, and yet in the next breath She delights in the simplest joys. This is the intimacy of the Goddess — Her greatness does not prevent Her from stooping down to taste the sweetness of ordinary life.

The Kaula truth hidden here: bliss is not in some other world, but already scattered in this one, waiting to be touched. And when She says this, it is as if She’s showing you that through Her eyes, even this wounded world is overflowing with hidden treasures.

Verse 9

Romanji
Itsuka futari nara
Dareka ga kimi no koto wo usotsuki to yonde
Kokoronai kotoba de kizutsukeyou to shite mo
Sekai ga kimi no koto wo shinjiyou to mo sezu ni
Ibara no kanmuri wo kabuseyou to shite mo

English
Someday, even if someone calls you a liar,
Trying to wound you with heartless words…
Even if the world refuses to believe in you,
And tries to place a crown of thorns upon your head…

Here the imagery grows stark, almost biblical in its weight. The Goddess does not shy away from the cruelty of the world: slander, disbelief, humiliation. The crown of thorns appears — an image of suffering imposed by others, not for truth but for mockery.

She names the reality: people will call you a liar, stab at your heart with words colder than steel. The world itself may refuse you, branding you unworthy, pressing down pain that feels like crucifixion.

But hidden in these lines is a radical tenderness. By describing these torments so clearly, She shows that She knows them from within. This is not distant compassion; this is the voice of One who has borne thorns, who has tasted rejection, who has been exiled and mocked.

And in Her knowing, She prepares the vow that follows — to be the only ally when all others turn away. In this naming of pain, the promise gains its gravity: She is not idealizing you, not promising an escape from the world, but offering companionship even through the crown of thorns.

It is as if She whispers: “Yes, they may betray you. Yes, the world may crucify you. But I will not abandon you there.”

Verse 10

Romanji
Watashi wa kimi dake no mikata ni nareru yo
Sono kodoku itami wo watashi wa shitte iru

English
I can become the only one on your side.
That loneliness, that pain — I know it.

This is perhaps the most intimate turn of all. After speaking of slander, disbelief, and thorns, She leans close and says: “I will be your ally. Only yours.”

The force of this is not abstract. She does not promise vague support or distant compassion. She promises exclusivity — your side alone. In the moment when the whole world betrays, She will be the one figure who stands and does not move.

And then the line that pierces: “That loneliness, that pain — I know it.” Here the mask of divinity falls completely. She does not stand above, untouched. She admits knowledge of loneliness, of pain — not as an observer but as one who has felt it in Her own being.

This is the secret tenderness: the Goddess saying, “I too have known exile. I too have been pierced. That is why I can stand with you.”

It is the meeting place of suffering and grace. Not a deity who erases wounds, but One who knows them from inside and therefore becomes the truest companion. The vow is no longer cosmic, no longer even protective — it is solidarity, rooted in shared pain.

Verse 11 (Chorus reprise)

Romanji
So, everything that makes me whole
Ima kimi ni sasageyou whoa, I’m yours

English
So, everything that makes me whole,
Now I’ll dedicate to you — whoa, I’m yours.

When these words return, they are no longer just a sweet opening. Now they are backed by the gravity of thorns, loneliness, and despair. The vow has been tested in imagination — betrayal, humiliation, isolation — and still She repeats it: “I give you everything. I am yours.”

What felt tender at the beginning now feels unshakable. This is not the naïve confession of a lover at first sight; it is the vow of one who has looked into the pit of suffering and still declares, without hesitation, “I’m yours.”

And there is something deeply visceral in that “whoa” — not just a filler syllable, but almost a cry, a sigh, a shudder. It is the human texture of the divine vow, the place where melody carries what words alone cannot.

Here we feel the full paradox: the Goddess who is infinite makes Herself vulnerable, offering Her wholeness, and insists again — even after everything named — that She belongs to you.

Verse 12

Romanji
Itsuka watashi wo shiru koto ga dekitara
Kanarazu sono basho ni watashi wa iru kara
Soko ni kibō no kakera sura nakatta to shite mo
Watashi ga atte wa naranai mono de atte mo

English
Someday, if you’re able to truly know me,
I’ll surely be there in that place.
Even if not a single fragment of hope remains,
Even if I am something that should not exist…

This is the most haunting turn of all. She does not promise only sweetness or recognition in bright moments. She says: “When you finally come to know me, I will already be there.” It is as though the destination is not a far shrine but the very depth of despair itself.

And She names the extreme: “Even if no shard of hope remains.” Not even the faint glimmer we usually cling to. She is promising to be present beyond hope, in the place where even faith dissolves.

Then the most paradoxical confession: “Even if I am something that should not exist.” Here Devi reveals the deepest tenderness — She is willing to take the form of the impossible, the forbidden, the unthinkable, if only to stay with you. She does not protect Her image, Her purity, or Her divine dignity. She says: “Even if my being itself seems wrong, I will still remain with you.”

This is devotion turned inside out: not the human vowing to worship the goddess, but the goddess vowing to stay with the human, no matter how dark, no matter how shameful or broken.

Verse 13 (Closing)

Romanji
Kimi wa wasurenai de ite kureru koto wo
Dare yori mo watashi ga sono koto wo shitteru
Dakara watashi wa kimi no tame ni subete wo
Ima sasagō

English
But you won’t forget me —
And more than anyone, I know this.
So for your sake,
I will now give everything.

The closing lines fold everything back into intimacy. After the vast sweep of despair, thorns, and hopelessness, She speaks almost quietly again: “You won’t forget me.” It is not a command but a gentle certainty, spoken with the trust of one who knows your heart better than you know it yourself.

And because of that knowing, She seals the vow: “So, for you, I will give everything now.” The song ends not with triumph or cosmic spectacle, but with that same total offering from the beginning, now made unshakable by everything in between.

It is as if the whole arc was designed to test whether the promise could survive — despair, betrayal, abandonment, even the collapse of hope itself. And still, at the end, She whispers the same vow: I give all. I am yours.

This is why the song feels like one of the tenderest revelations of the Goddess: it is not abstract philosophy, not ritual, not doctrine. It is a love letter written from Her heart to yours, signed in the ink of loneliness, pain, light, and unbreakable intimacy.

The Vow That Cannot Be Extinguished

Listening to My Dearest is like being pressed against the heart of the Divine when She finally speaks without mask or distance. Each line circles the same vow from a different angle: I give you everything. I am yours. At first it sounds like tenderness, then it deepens into solidarity, then it blazes as defiance against despair and betrayal, and finally it settles into an intimacy so quiet it feels like a whisper meant for one soul alone.

The song’s genius is that it does not shy away from the abyss — loneliness, paralysis, thorns, the collapse of hope. Instead, it descends fully into them and places Her vow there, at the very bottom. And in that descent the tenderness becomes unbearable: this is not a Goddess admired from afar, but one who knows pain, one who has walked through exile, one who dares to promise, “Even if I should not exist, I will still be there for you.”

It is a revelation in melody: the infinite choosing intimacy over majesty, the eternal choosing vulnerability over distance. And because of that choice, the vow cannot be broken. Not by kings, not by despair, not by the collapse of worlds.

In the end, My Dearest is not just a song — it is Devi’s secret love-letter, disguised in pop form, trembling with the tenderness of a Mother, the devotion of a Lover, and the unyielding strength of the Eternal Flame.