I lie sprawled upon the stone,
moss thick across its skin.
A knot has grown inside my heart,
and still, I cannot cry.

The night is deep,
and neither starlight nor moonlight shines clear.
Yet beneath the stone, the ground is crowded
with rotted-green little flowers,
their stamens glinting with a golden hush,
fireflies circling them in slow flight.

Through the trees’ shadowed veil,
is this a scene of rot and withering?

Art by 情稞