Resentment at Dawn

“From this day on, if we ever meet again, let us be as this object.”

Beneath the sharp sword, the white silk tore.

It turned into fluttering butterflies, each fragment stirring sorrow.

“I never thought I would use this object to see you off today.”

A golden goblet of fine wine, raised in vain to the moon; a graceful young gentleman, sighing for nothing.

Who could have foreseen today's ending? If we had known, who would have wanted us to meet?