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The glorious age falls and crumbles, and even death must seek a home. She passed through Aidonia and souls wailed in her palms, yet there was no hatred in those sounds. Is glory equally priced to death? To seek this answer, she never stopped her steps. After a journey that lasted a millennium, she still does not know where her corpse should call home.
I see a sword that grants death, A shackle of destiny,
Next to the silver-haired girl, Worshiped at the demise's hallow.
The sword stained with unknown blood, lying shattered and snapped. The shackle chained pale wrists, dotted in thickening rust.
The priest asks with a shaking voice— Upon whose fingertips will the butterfly perch?
The girl never answers, Like death itself, wreathed in silent solemnity.
1-2
People often say that, Dying is to meet the palm of the Hand of Shadow, And dreaming is to be brushed by their fingers a little.
In the mirages when the girl petted death, She sees black waterfalls foaming and bellow,
Pouring down from a chasm in the sky, Where a solitary tower withstands torrents sallow.
When she wakes, she can still feel the water's freezing touch, And the cacophony's billow—
Like the wail of the dead, the howl of beasts, In confusion, delirium, and clamors hollow.
1-3
The girl's embrace is not meant for the living. Thousands have entered the eternal sleep in her arms, Granting to the dead solace and dignity.
She mentions a ferocious warrior, feared in battle... "She did not go with a smile, but to me, she cursed—"
"O, life's end! How ugly you are! How despicable!"
And from that day on, she adorned herself. Her dress, white as a radiant moon, Became always dotted with flowery petals.
"For if death cannot be avoided..." So says the girl, "I wish it could contain beauty more plentiful."
1-4
Among the manifold rites about death, The ones she knows with most intimacy are burial rites.
One burial of unfamiliar countenance after another whereover she presided, From the angelic visage of a babe passed in the cradle, To the despairing eyes of the mother drowning in sorrow.
From the scars on a war-battered general's torso, To the unending tears pouring from his bereft widow.
Yet she remembers not a single living human she had seen, Even in the mirror, she thinks her own face strange, with an alien glow.
In the countless words buried in forgetfulness, The only thing she manages to gleam is a mockery to fate, a sarcastic whistle—
"Stay alive."
1-5
When she cast aside the shackles and stepped beyond Aidonia, A déjà vu most violent seizes her whole. Did she, perchance, conduct some previous escape?
Illusions dance across her eyes—
She had once drifted in an endless river, Then drove her single boat out of the deluge.
She had wandered in the battlefield covered in corpses, Then recovered the path back to life.
Why must she escape? Over and over again? She now knows the answer and quivers, for it is a ludicrous surmise—
The woman embodying death walks this world, Only because she knows she must stay alive.
But alas— At that time, she knows not,
That death is not the end. It is only a butterfly landing on a withered branch. Utterly meaningless. Profoundly trite.
Born with an evil curse, Her hand dips into lethal cinnabar and white lead, To personally decorate the faces of the dead.
Her skills are said to bestow beauty on anyone, Even transforming their appearance completely.
2-2
Many skills were born out of her seclusion, But it painted her dwelling in a gloomy vision —
Only a select few have set foot in this mansion, And the thief and the weaver were two such lucky persons.
The girl converses with all items in the house... With specimens, tea sets, and even pillows in profusion, As if she can hear the responses of these non-living things.
"I have always lived in isolation..." "Out of courtesy, this is how I practice my words and actions."
Tis hard to believe her explanation —
Her face when talking shows such a gentle disposition, That unless she is telling fabrications, She must regard her partners as mere children.
2-3
People passed these rumors down — within the area of her encirclement, All things became frozen, escaping time's increments.
It is an exaggeration, that is certain. People only found an ancient lion's head in battle's ruined armaments. "Those words are true."
The head itself was nearly dead. "Though they won in fierce battle, the warriors were powerless to turn the tide." "It was the embrace where death dwelled that gave early release from their pain."
This is how Death escapes Time —
She keeps every final embrace, Hidden in her immortal heart.
2-4
Out of her numerous works, Butterflies and flowers often stand out stark — Ignite them, and you can almost hear the maker's remark.
Even in death's silence, Her sound can still be heard.
It is a gift greatly treasured by the maiden, Few have the honor to be graced with such work.
Only one has the heart to burn such a gift, And the reason she gives is rather far-fetched
—
"I must peer into all fates unknown."
2-5
The power of time is boundless, but there is one thing it cannot conquer.
"Death is abominable in humans' eyes." "Apart from my identity, there's nothing about me worthy of praise."
The beloved Goldweaver hears this in distress, Then tries to teach her the art of weaving and threads.
It has been said that the maiden has works that the holy city possesses.
But this is the judgment the Goldweaver expresses —
"Ah, well, none can know all things, nor be skilled in all crafts." "Her works are too early for the living to comprehend."
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." That is the limit of the girl's answer — And she only responds with silence for requests to read these poems.
3-2
As time goes, she finally opens her petal-veiled heart, And the reason behind her reluctance to show her work is finally clear:
"My poems are still too green... Not worthy to be art." — It stems from the girl's shame and discomfort.
It seems the girl once also loved to imagine with effort, And many wild tales were written on her part. A misunderstanding was what made her cease this art.
It was a pair of archenemies who gained fame in the war, One of them burst into laughter after reading the girl's poetic words —
"He and I clearly wish to kill and tear each other apart." "But in your eyes, you think we are close, unable to part?"
3-3
She did not write poetry as a pastime. It is said that she left great works under hundreds of names.
In different times, She even criticized her previous beliefs, Making her identity even harder to assume.
I still found her weakness After many twists and turns —
No matter how fickle her thoughts, She never lost faith, in those words, Regarding the value of fragile mortal lives.
She is heartbreaking and enchanting, She is the fingertips of death, And the ghost of love and poetry.
3-4
However, those poems have brought her many complaints —
The poems that her hands composed, All lack an ending of any kind, And the maid of death has no desire to continue them.
"This is truly difficult to write..."
The girl excuses herself, "My duty is to lead the living to the end." "I cannot think of a fitting end for a poem to the dead."
Such is the epitome of lies —
One who's grown used to death, Remains inexperienced with farewells.
3-5
Therefore, I extend her an invitation —
In this story belonging to herself, She can leave an ending reserved only for her.
"...What she brings is not only death." She thus replied When we first met.
And when we meet once again for the last time, She again deliberates over this closing statement —
"Apart from death, there is something else That is worth remembering."
The two girls frolicked in the wheat fields, Fleet as doe deer, Making ripples in the shallow puddles and pools clear.
As dusk approaches, The exhausted girls collapse over the wheat heaps, Talking about their longings and dreams: Of literature, love, and a journey through a world dear.
"O Sky, slow your closing gaze, How I want to keep this moment in my hands, Forevermore."
On that day, the breeze was warm and gentle. At that time, death was soft and fair.
4-2
The broken-winged butterfly falls by the window, Bringing with it a scent of melancholy.
The girl looks outside, The golden wheat fields rolled endlessly, stretching to the horizon. Holding to the chair, she tries to stand, Only to find her legs trembling and feeble.
"Don't worry, Polyxia." Her older sister whispers beside her ear, And on her sister's shoulder, the girl weeps mournfully.
And time thus becomes silent, Painted with sighs only.
4-3
When hearing the healer's diagnosis, The girl remained deathly still. Her eyes were already drained of tears, And her heart a wilted grave.
"Every time she has something on her mind, She would tilt her head and look outside."
Her sister follows her gaze, Seeing a barren field turned by wind into a desolate gray expanse.
Till one day, When the girl looks outside, She sees a dash of dark blue most brave.
"It's a flower my sister planted."
Like the torrential river of life, It pours into the depths of her heart.
4-4
The flower is called "Antila," Even in the nether land, it's rumored to thrive. "You are the quiet in my heart amidst the chaotic choreography." That seems to be its floriography.
When the days are warm, The sister would take the girl on long journeys. Through the flower fields, gazing upon rivers, Napping amongst the grove, a discussion hearty.
"After I die, I want to become an Antila flower, And become the quietness in your soul." A thoughtless word from the girl, Gains her a rapping on her forehead most dainty.
"Do not speak of dusk when you have yet to see the dawn." Dew drops from the petals, As wind pulls on the leaves, And the two of them sit, in quietude.
4-5
The girl asks for the means to tend to the garden, And while her sister sounds concerned, Her heart is relieved.
But the concern is well-founded — The girl tripped and fell into a mire, (She gazed/Her gaze) directly into the eyes of death, In that dark pool bottom unperceived.
"I've been the weight upon my sister's wings... Let this be where it all comes to rest." The girl gives up her struggles, Only to see a figure pierce through the water's surface —
"I won't allow you to walk through the dusk alone, Or enter the night of no reprieve." Her sister sobs without end, And the girl has to gently hug her, and softly relieve.
...And then, this distant memory turns bleary, difficult to retrieve.
The River of Souls flows to the other side, wrapped in the land's night, Broad, slow, an eternal and silent sight. It belongs to all in this world that has life, All of which flows downstream, converging as one.
The master of the nether realm, Thanatos, Enshrouds themself and the souls within the Moon Cocoon.
The dragon, born from the cocoon, carries a girl, soaring upstream the River of Souls, defying its eternal flow.
Their connection flows tighter than blood, And the key that opens the netherworld's gates, Is the sister's selfish plight.
Back then, the boreal winds cut through to the bone. Back then, death was a bitter and stabbing fright.
5-2
In the nether realm without an earth or sky, A flower named Antila blooms, its beauty witnessed by but one soul.
"You are the quiet in my heart amidst the chaotic choreography." The younger sister scores through the blooming Antila fields, Never finding that promised dark blue sprig.
She silently made up her mind. "Death. Leave all your dark nights to me, And save the dawns for her."
The younger sister gazes at the Moon Cocoon high above, And plans a trip to the mortal realm, a distant flurry.
5-3
A bard once sung to musical notes:
"Do not turn back. O do not turn back. The long hand of shadow will retain the dead behind their gates."
The giant dragon born from the Moon Cocoon Willingly offered itself as the enduring barge of the River of Souls.
"No need to turn back. Oh, no need to turn back. That price had long been paid for you by someone else."
The dragon lowers its long neck, And places the girl on its back. In slumber, she will unknowingly greet The dawn of her rebirth.
5-4
The dragon flaps its wings, In the chilly gloom of the floating dead, upstream.
Ferrying from purity into grime, Going from silence to roaring boom.
The souls of countless poets flounder past, Their distant rhymes endless like foams:
“Do not turn back. For to look toward the land of mortals, is in itself turning back.”
In this pale dawn, The sun’s first rays light the night ablaze. So the dragon crosses the Sea of Souls, Onto the shores of life, and strands itself in the gleam.
5-5
We know not where These stories arise. They are scattered across the shallows with the waves.
The confession the girl made before her departure, Still echoes in the tides' heaves.
"If there is anything for me to leave behind, May it find a soul to remember.
This is the ode of my life, And I've already penned my last stroke."
