Spring Mire
As if awakened from its dream,
The wind that murmured in the pines
Roars over the remaining cherry blossoms.
A banner on the castle
Waves crazily,
And the August wind
Turns into showers.
Though the dog chases,
The wagtail raises not its wings,
But swiftly slides down
The slope of the turfy hill.
when I wrap my sorrow
In the flames of my love,
The pale blue smoke
Rises out of my soul.
46 
