Beneath the swelter of cicada cries,
A village blooms in pastoral disguise.
Soft faces gleam with summer’s gentle light,
Yet shadows linger, crouched beyond the sight.

A rustling wind through barley bends and twists,
The smell of earth both sweet and dark persists.
Laughter echoes, fragile as spun glass,
Fractured by truths no mind dares to surpass.

Blood-red camellias line the narrow path,
Their petals strewn like fragments of a wrath.
Memory tangles, looping without end—
Where friends are foes and time will never mend.

In Kyuuta's strokes, the fragile worlds ignite,
A dream that turns to terror overnight.