cemetery (eng ver.)

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With a soft exhale, draping a flannel garment over his shoulders atop a thick sweater, the youth meandered along the labyrinthine paths of cemetery lanes, amidst crosses and tombstones, effigies of the departed, and abandoned spades. Within his grasp, he cradled a striking bouquet of death-hued roses, their crimson hue punctuated by pronounced thorns, elegantly enveloped in vibrant paper and bound with a medley of ribbons. A precise count of ten roses adorned the bundle. Navigating through the jagged limbs of ancient trees, he sighed and recoiled, each step accompanied by the brittle snap akin to the bones of the deceased. Venturing deeper into the heart of the graveyard, among the grandiose statues, and sometimes even very simple tombstones, and even wooden crosses, directing his old flashlight either forward or to the sides of himself, illuminating path and the names etched upon familiar tombstones.      He paused before a modest yet elegant tombstone, etched with the face of a young, barely-bloomed soul. Gently, he placed flowers at its base—petals still touched by the tears of countless nights, their dampness a testament to grief, now shadowed and deep. Shedding the dusky shroud of his hooded garment, he raised his eyes, mirroring the luminance of the moon and stars, as well as the perpetual melancholy haunting his soul.      "Frankie.. it has been five winters since you departed. It has been an eternity since I last graced the forsaken earth where you rest, so much so that the contour of your radiant visage begins to fade from memory. I am aware that you would not wish for me to frequent the dismal abode of your tombstone, toil endlessly amidst the frigid soil, and saturate it with the bitterness of my tears... Yet, I find myself unable to relinquish the purity of your spirit, this unyielding sorrow that fester within the recesses of my mind's abyss. I earnestly beseech for your grace and pardon, hoping against hope for absolution."      Clasping within his slender, pallid fingers an intricate silver cross with a keenly honed tip, the youth fixed his desperate gaze upon the moon, commencing a prayer. He beseeched the Son of God Himself, seeking solace for his troubled mind.