Sunday is coming, under my feet is a long and desolate galaxy,
Fifteen pieces of thought fragments, like fragments of dreams, scattered in the wind;
Fifteen pieces of impression remnants, like tears, falling into the boundless night;
Fifteen pieces of broken mirrors of desire, like broken mirrors, reflecting broken desires;
Sixty-five pieces of illusions of a chord, are the distant song, the call that penetrates the darkness.
Three hundred and eight thousand credit points, are the wind, blowing the shaky fate.
The trace material is the trajectory of the stars,
Twelve pieces of the same wish, like the most gentle harmony in the night sky;
Forty-one pieces of thought fragments, are flowing tears;
Fifty-eight pieces of broken mirrors of desire, depicting unspeakable scars;
Fifty-six pieces of impression remnants, are fragments of broken starlight.
Notes from the clouds, bars from the sky, and music from the sky,
are all the rhythm of life, beating with unfinished lines of poetry.
Three million credits are the abyss of silence.
Skill materials, fragments of thoughts, notes from the clouds, bars from the sky,
are the knocks from the depths of the soul, the echoes, and the calls.
The light cone “flight back to the earth” is the light on the way home,
four notes from the clouds, twelve bars from the sky, fifteen music from the sky,
twenty fragments of thoughts, twenty residual crystals of impressions, fourteen broken mirrors of desires,
shining with a faint light in the darkness.
Treabar is the other side of the galaxy,
watching over the tired travelers, waiting for the light to come.
Sunday’s growth is an eternal poem,
singing slowly between light and shadow, between the stars and the night.