In the balmy embrace of this vernal season, i muse to myself: "shall the warmth of affection grace my existence this time?" The spring breeze, pirouetting in the air, bears witness to my whispered supplications. The advent of such tender warmth of love—ever awaited by my soul—shall remain eternal. Unwearied.

I am the soul who awaits the advent of love’s warmth, akin to that in a realm of fairy tales. Oh, what a marvel it must be to be cherished with sincerity—untainted by coercion or jest. Such is the manner in which I dare to dream.