Delicate, charming in the mud,
Decadence is here, the third month of summer.
Under the dripping grass eaves, who bumped into the old lantern in front of the window,
Polished, hasty reunion.
Hibernating, swaying with broken stems,
I hope extravagantly to be able to embrace each other through life and death.
——Is the future she saw the future?
Or is it that what she saw was not her future at all?
... No, actually, she has no future.