Hime Hiroda

Smile, Dear Mother

Where is it, the glorious morning star?
That with its resplendent rays warms me from afar
Where can it be, now that the cold bites my face?
Now that the dreary cotton fluffs cloud the sky up high;
Methinks, Apollo’s orb utters naught but a heavy sigh.

Where is it, that playful little zephyr?
That whispers delightful melodies to my ear
Where can it be, where goes its lovely grace?

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