on the side of a broken bridge in the courier station,
a single plum flower is blooming helplessly,
the dusk is approaching, which makes it more melancholy,
what's more, followed by a violent storm at the same time.
it has no intention to fight for the supremacy hard in the spring,
just let other flowers bear a grudge at their convenience.
even if its petals wither and fall to the mud, being gound into dust,
its soul of fragrance can't still disappear, remaining for ever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem