How long will it be
 
till the willow puts away
 
its spring finery?

 

 
 
 

In a time of plague
 
red roses in a white vase
 
take the place of songs.

 

 
 
 

On his homeward way
 
an old man trudges slowly,
 
weighed down by spring rain.

 

 
 
 

The children next door
 
try to outshout the May wind
 
that roars through their yard.

 

 
 
 

Having done some things,
 
I leave other things undone—
 
one more spring day ends.

 

 
 
 

On the first of May
 
I’m weeping as the river
 
slowly fades away.

 

 
 
 

One more April ends—
 
I keep forgetting to spread
 
my father’s ashes.

 

 
 
 

My apricot tree
 
has put on its fine green coat
 
to dance with the wind.

 

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
I have no use this morning
 
for your songs of joy.

 

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
were you fast asleep last night
 
when the full moon rose?