On viridity hill a bowl sings at the stroke of a qing,
a girl rises from her cursed bed,
with thoughts of red she can’t shake.
A flash of rage, a stab of emotion,
viridity singing hill has a new one set in motion.
She can’t enter the temple nor pray at the shrine,
her purity questioned by divine,
yet she’s the one who creates.
All she has is time and wait,
while a bowl sings at the stroke of a qing –
without a pause the girl turns and flees.