The weeping willow before my house now stores crows,
the crab apple behind my house past the peak of spring.
Fresh mud in swallow's beak, rain beyond the painted blinds;
bridges like geese in flight, I sing with the plain koto.
When we are melancholy, we're least inclined to talk;
the flowers, about to fall, emit the strongest scent.
Still unfree from the regret of seeing a ruddy face wilt,
I have described my inner thoughts to sing this song.