In March, a little wind.
In my love before
she married the summer.
Perhaps, the spring to give her a large dowry.
The flying catkins, curl of smoke.
She was supposed to be my bride.
The gods may be in half, Lake or deep or shallow.
I have a bit of thinking with any trouble.
All floating paper become my hands.
Spit out the concentric circle several beautiful.
You mean the beginning of the end of me.
When you put on the wedding, I will put on robes.