I see a sword that grants death,
A shackle of destiny,

Next to the silver-haired girl,
Worshiped at the demise's hallow.

The sword stained with unknown blood, lying shattered and snapped.
The shackle chained pale wrists, dotted in thickening rust.

The priest asks with a shaking voice —
Upon whose fingertips will the butterfly perch?

The girl never answers,
Like death itself, wreathed in silent solemnity.