A black rose blooms. Who is the beauty above the ruins? Who bought you drunk? Painted the ground as a prison. How can there be heartbreak in the artificial tears? Buried a black rose. The beauty after the blood has solidified. The fleeting time embellishes the soul-stirring depth. False. No regrets. Grinding the bones. Spreading ashes. Whose sin? Lies, rumors and scars. I have never given myself a chance. Always, to wither. Withering int int, in in on: A piece of sadness, a pain, a sense of emptiness, a sense of loneliness, and some longing... The harem is a record of the sad history of countless women.