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You are ill; let me put my slender arm
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Think it's your snow
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When evening comes, plovers fly
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The Way it walks, the snail
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White peonies about to collapse
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Under flying sweetfish
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If I should forget you because of this unhappiness
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The Dew that formed remains
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Black hair, a thousand strands of hair
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You think of him, and so do I; our hearts
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