Each of the endings had been written. All the tears been already on the way. But how did it begin we’d forgotten. On that old unrepeatable summer’s day. No matter how I used to follow trace. Thee young, in the flashy floating cloudslost. A softest and faintest smile on your face. Which day by day disappeared amidst. From hill to hill after the sun’s falling. Then the yellowish title page unfolded. Fortune made it with awfully binding. With tears again and again had I read. Being unwilling to admit the truth. All is rush written in the book of youth.