Standing beneath the arch of a shadowed mansion,

the little girl.

Her beauty, astounding,

yet in a grown-up dress

with a made-up face.

Dark lipstick,

like frozen blood.

“Bring me the flower, on time,” she says

to the little boy.

Tugging down layers of ruffles,

she reveals the scar.

“After all, Grandma once asked me to cut my throat.”

The lily bouquet is handed to me today.

But it withers, at once, in the summer wind.

“I’ll buy her a new bouquet, white and bright,

from my own pocket,” I decide.

Yet lost in the labyrinth of Tokyo

of past and present,

with an incomprehensible map, a dead phone,

and a spiderweb-like metro, where I dare not tread.

“Quick, quick,” a voice rings in my head, 

“Bring her the flowers in time,

or she could endure no longer.”

Bright lilies,

from the Third Summer of Love.

A dream on July 9