Donned in simple garb,
I commune with the blooming bush,
With feelings peculiarly my own.

Just this day, my hairs have begun to turn white:
Last year, the flowers looked redder than these.
Their tender beauty is going the way
Of the morning dew,
Their fragrant breath is evaporating
Into the evening breeze.

Why must we wait for their wilting
And falling before we can realize
The evanescence of life?