Poets like to romance,
About the beauty of flowers,
Of their sweet scent,
And the pretty patterns of their cheeks
But where do they go,
The souls of these poor petals?
When they're swept into the gutter,
Or thrown into the wind
Are they but a lonesome pilgrim?
Finding their way back home?
Or are they but decay,
All alone in the snow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem