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,
After you unto the farthest end of the sky.
At the farthest end of the sky,
Where can I find the grave of your fragrance lie?
Better in silk to shroud your petals fair,
With a handful of clean earth as your attire.
责任编辑：虫虫
