Dusk.
The throes of summer.
"What a wicked moon,"
You glare.
Where is the summer.
Scenery i see behind you? Fallen?
I don't.
Know if i can reach it.
Your fingers, your crumbling feelings, are hidden.

Look.
You can hear it, right?
Children's voices.
No matter how many.
But you can't hear it.
My voice.

The moon mischievously exposes my wet sleeves, clearly.
Where are those days when we rushed to bed?

No one.
Pities our shadows.
Our times diverging.
But I.
Continue to think of them.
I bite my lip to endure.
The mist floating around the corner of my eyes.
The bell rings again.
The croaky bell.
Forgetting to stop ringing, mutters, "Fireflies and cicadas."

And before I knew it.
I'd been walking along.
The water's edge all this time.
Peeking into the water's mirror.
A swarm of open-mouthed goldfish laughed.
"Now, hurry up with that hand.
I'll eat it as a consolation gift.
Now, now, hurry up.
--If you don't even move, I'll drag you in."

Ah.
It ends cruelly.
Is that also a sin?
But
My vessel is too small.
Too hold the water of waiting.
Late autumn's resolve.
Overflows like mist in my eyes.

In a kaleidoscope.
In the hazy light, I saw.
"The cicadas are chirping."