I've exhausted my concern for her heart's desire.
And indeed, never even once deserved to be an antidote
Nor to be one who would have done that—whatever it was.

I always wondered: What flower will bloom when watered by venomous poison?
Or is the fertilizer the innocent soil of heaven—obtained from angels—or the deceit of the devil?
I tend not to care about her anymore—her utter destruction—even I won't interfere.
Let the false helper, the attention seeker, the remorseless hearted, save her.

The essence of all essence—guessing and surmising—why are you looking for rotten apricots in daylight?
When there's an apple, a sumptuous peach, and a sparkle of pomegranate seeds?
Like a snowy mountain, beautiful yet deadly—would you still climb it?
Even other metaphors could never describe the strangeness of your behavior—your friends, my friends.

Is it any different from digging a hole in the side of a rocky cliff with a pickaxe? No, it isn't.
Always remember that: Forget me.

You always choose to sort out and discard what's right, so that your mistakes will determine the direction of your future decisions.
Get lost—I'll leave you alone until you're truly sorry.
Even until the whisper of that callous is no longer heard in your mind.