My very first cry was somewhere deep inside of a forest no one had known.
It was just like thunder, perhaps even anger, only with more purity.
My destiny had begun.
Asking the wind to tell me which way I should be heading is nothing more than irony.
During the days of my youth, with all the options open, I'd still pick the unknown path.
Deeply yearning for something, to the point of finding myself far too immersed, would leave me realizing that my peace of mind could be severed so easily.
The sun, I pray, all to the sun.
Just like a white flame, even in the short-lived summer, it draws closer, just like footsteps.
If my loneliness is like the rustling through the forest, is there a cause that I cannot find?
If anything beginning cannot avoid an ending as if it's only guaranteed, sinking like the gray sky into the horizon, I just turn my back to it.
If I grow tired of searching, there is no reason I could blame it on tomorrow.
It's said time waits for no one, and it won't be long now be