To the dead, when she bids farewell,
She casts the slate into the fire, an act futile.

I have never heard of lands with such customs.

At this time, something drizzles down the slate,
Full of colors,
seemingly tears for the Reaper of chills.

It turns out the slate is inscribed with poems,
And every phrase
Is diligently colored with skill.

“Before people pass away,
I write down these poems.”^[1]
That is the limit of the girl's answer —
And she only responds with silence
for requests to read these poems.