Strands of sunlight breeze into quiet courtyards,
Swaying threads of crimson spring.
Pausing a while, you fix your hair,
Contemplating the mirror which steals your silhouette.
Cloud like tresses trail to one side,
Dare you step outside?
If you don't come to the garden, how would you know that springtime is like this?
Due to your reluctance, such splendor is abandoned.
Where are the sounds of joy in this garden?
Your beauty is concealed in the hall of your words.
Like the early spring which no one sees.
For your beauty is like the flowers which sway and float on the river of eternal time.
This brief moment, when our fates collide,
Is made in heaven,
Pillowed on grass, bedded among flowers.
This annoying strong wind of my troubles,
Messes flowers, and betrays the beauty of springtime.
Ah.
Thus, the view is wasted.