Outside my window,The thrush tweets in the warm air,A song I wish you could hear. I stopped to listen,The city noises ring loud,But I hear you, still, singing.
Please, grant me some rest, I cannot think anymore, I want sleep, maybe to dream. My poor, dear poet, the wicked earn no reprieve, now get back to work, my love.
Do blossoms recall,Dancing along the river,Even when Spring fades away? Spring blooms are fickle,Winds carry them far away,But they remember, always.