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.

People often say that,
Dying is to meet the palm of the Hand of Shadow,
And dreaming is to be brushed by their fingers a little.

In the mirages when the girl petted death,
She sees black waterfalls foaming and bellow.

Pouring down from a chasm in the sky,
Where a solitary tower withstands torrents sallow.

When she wakes, she can still feel the water's freezing touch,
And the cacophony's billow —

Like the wail of the dead, the howl of beasts,
In confusion, delirium, and clamors hollow.