In March lunar swallows have got their nests ready,
They on the beam seem to be those without mercy.
Next year in their flight, fresh flowers they may peck, though,
All that they and I have will be lost, they never know.
There are three hundred and sixty days in one year,
With you the elements of nature are severe.
Time is not long for you to be bright and charming,
Your trace and track are hard to find in your drifting.
You are easy to see when open but hard when fallen,
Before the stairs I am worried where to find your remains.
Against the spade I lean and in secret weep sudden,
Splashed on your bare branches are my tears like bloodstains.
The cuckoo ceases its warbling at twilight,
With my spade I return and shut the doors tight.
I go to bed with a lone oil lamp still shining,
My quilt is not warm when a cold rain is falling.
I feel at heart it is a matter quite nerve-racking,
For I like spring or I feel sad over its leaving.
Spring I love and my sorrow repair at a fast pace,
They come silent and go without leaving a trace.
Last night beyond pavilions sad song seemed rising,
Was it the souls of flowers or birds that were singing?
It is always hard to ask their souls to stay behind,
That birds are silent and flowers feel ashamed, I find.
I wish to have two wings under my arms to fly,
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