Floating forests to the extreme
Rina, where above the wind
And the voices go away
Rooks, and the evening breeze
From the world there is a history of snow.
A reddish galang grew out of the ring
And the serpent was over the fallen fields.
Similar to the month. Fog
Toiling in the shades of memory.
The heavens have dissipated.
The stars went to Niigich
In black hair And, having raised up the dark hands,
The night fell