I count the lines on your palm, and I found nothing but me holding you.
Do we let the the soil drenched with the splashes, splattering on the grasses, and be gone thereafter.
She picked cinders and showered around her as she gracefully spun and happily danced.
Silent and weary, time passed by.
Gloomy and sad, the storm continued.
In your thorns I held and in my grip you retired.