The stars and universe are dim, the fleet's lights gnash.
Cicadas fall silent, leaves descend, the Dark Ruins loom high.
The Dark Ruins loom high, the venom of sin spreads vast.
The venom of sin spreads vast, and all creation listens to the rustling wind.
She still sang the same poem, then told me an old tale.
She said it might have happened a long, long time ago, or perhaps not long ago, or maybe only in last night's dream: she might have been just one of them.
Then shall we assume it all happened in last night's dream? The tears, too, were only mountain rain falling in a dream.
She told me of some unfortunate people who lived in an unfortunate world and acted out unfortunate stories.
I retold many dull, tedious misfortunes in my clumsy writing, like silverfish building towers from ruins, recounting them in my notebook.
Still, nothing but desolate ruins.
