Although the title references spring, the song transports the listener to a small room in Tokyo at midnight. It features fluorescent lights that remain unlit and a castle of the frontal brain destined to vanish by tomorrow. "Bomeul Gohada" begins with this unfamiliar juxtaposition. Amidst the glittering words, a heart keeps surfacing—one that longs for someone to stay beside it while repeatedly insisting that no one is here.
The words that follow the question of whether they will stay.
The introduction juxtaposes the specific dimensions of a small room with the surreal space of a castle in the frontal lobe. While the body remains within the room, the world where the mind resides appears far more expansive. Yet there is not even certainty that this castle will last until tomorrow. From the moment it begins so brilliantly, an anxiety about disappearance is already present.
Shortly after, someone asks whether anyone will disappear, repeating the assertion that no one is here. It is difficult to determine exactly who this question is directed at. However, it is noteworthy how a statement confirming absence immediately follows an attempt to hold on. The desire for connection and the actual feeling of isolation collide within a single scene.

Photo: Original Korean article
Faces erased within a perfect production
In the middle, difficult topics are set aside in favor of a familiar suggestion to just drink. The phrasing that this is something said to everyone lends an air of emptiness to what should be a comfortable invitation. It becomes clear that exchanging words and truly knowing one another are not necessarily the same thing.
The section that follows the discussion of perfect direction and life, stating that no one knows what they were like in childhood, carries a similar weight. One can present a carefully curated current image, but that does not necessarily convey the full span of time a person has lived through. There is no need to limit this passage to the narrative of a specific online space; it resonates with the experience of smiling naturally in front of others yet feeling particularly alone on the way home.

Photo: Original Korean article
The room that keeps returning, even when the end is spoken of
In the second half, the end of the world, a box of memories floating on the night sea, and an apocalyptic journey appear. Rather than definitively labeling this as a narrative of actual disaster, it can be read as an imagination attempting to escape the current room. This is because if everything were to end, the weight of reality that had been held onto for so long might feel different, at least for a moment.
Yet the song returns to the same words as the small room at the beginning. No scene is presented in which someone has stepped outside or arrived in a new season. Therefore, it is difficult to interpret the spring in the title directly as a hopeful conclusion. What lingers in "Haru wo Koudasu" is the gap between the name of the season and the night that still has not ended. In that space, a wish for someone not to leave continues to hover.

Photo: Original Korean article
Listen along with the track details
Open the official video on YouTube
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Haru wo Tsugeru is the first original track by yama, released on April 17, 2020. Kujira wrote and composed it. The player above features the official music video.
A good companion track is “Cream” by the same yama and Kujira. If “Haru o Tsugeru” shuttles between the space before class and the space after, “Cream” foregrounds tangible scenery like railings, staircases, and windows opened together. It is worth comparing how everyday life meets loneliness in both songs.
Read alongside the official Sony Music track history, release details, and analysis of “Cream”
If this song resonated with you
Cream — yama looks back on the happiness of a day that went unnoticed because it felt so ordinary.
Shinkai — Eve captures the trajectory of a person who, despite pretending not to expect anything, opens their heart and reaches out to someone.