Those Many Springs

After a few sudden drizzles, spring tides rise, birthing lush greenery. "How many springs has it been?" He recalls those young soldiers heading to the battlefield for the first time. Year after year, the faces were all different, yet they radiated the exact same vigor and hope. The willow withers as it waits for their return. But what they manage to bring home is often... the frost that can never melt. Birds' warbles linger in the air as he closes his eyes, allowing sunlight to fall on his face through the gaps between the leaves. —"Alas, those who remain are the loneliest of all."