Her thick braid hair is black and shiny, like a untied cable.
The smell of sulfur baked by the golden sun in Harakutu is overflowing.
And that youthful drunkenness is the shyness of chicks when they first meet the sun.
Ann is here now?
Youth is only once, right?
I remember the first time I saw a girl holding her own flowers.
I went to bed and learned what happened to that generation.
This old friend told me that her eldest child was ill.
The youngest son became deaf and dumb after taking medicine.
The lame husband was washed away by the flash flood, and his arm was mutilated from then on.
An old friend said that she often had epilepsy and bit the tip of her tongue.
A beautiful face, but a spring garden, will wither in an instant?
If the truth of time is just an illusory mental image,
Will the bleak dusk in Harakutu be different?
Everything is so lonely,
Is there really a sky red with flames?
Is there really a sleepless night fighting for steel?
Do you really have a bride like a flower?
Is there really an eagle of Harakutu?
Are there really poets living in the border areas?
So lonely, lonely, lonely,
Like bees buzzing in the distance, loneliness is as real as noise.
And the choice of fate is as unreasonable as opportunity.