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Like the moon

reflected on the water

cupped in my hands,

is it real or not –

this world in which we live?


Buried in Winter,

How unexpected it is

Between the trees

To imagine flowers

In the fallen snow.


This world of men

Is a hard place, is it not?

Folk's words

Saying this and that

Spread rumours, causing pain.


Did I but know the way

I would go and pluck,

On Suminoe's

Shore the sprouting

Grass to forget my love.


To bygone days

Still returns

My heart;

My love

Will not allow me to forget.


No one knows

The passion in my heart;

How I do regret it, for

My grief

Is known to me alone.


Chrysanthemums in Autumn:

While they shine

I'll wear them in my hair,

For sooner than the flowers'

May come my ending.