Shadowy scraps adorn your form;
Spring-born, how wilts thou.
The color-king, whom praises
The choir of beings sings;
Where’s your crown of scarlet,
And the leafy verdant cloak?
Bees pay no mind to you,
Neither do the flies;
Winds avoids your stalk
And rain passes by.
Emperor of Spring:
Time has woven, and now it tears,
Your petals into blood;
Your prideful swell towards the sky,
It entombs in mud.