It would have better not to have heard
Than to hear that the bud that
Just opened for the flower to come out
Has suddenly closed.
The flower wilted in the morning sun
And the leaf tips with droplets of dews
Are the rills that roll the cheeks of the world.
Such a termination in the tide of rising wave
Who will row the boat across
In the midst of the little ones?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem