Summer to Autumn
Like a holy Buddha
In a shrine of gold,
The morning sun rests in the depths
Of the field of rape-seed flowers.
At the time when the mists are heavy
And the cuckoo sings,
A wild columbine shivers
By the stone wall.
The early cherry bloom in my garden
Is like a maiden on a pilgrimage.
When the wind blows, she weeps.
The wind has risen,
And the white morning glories sway
Like the lips of an echo.
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