Foamy tides, like snow-drifts, lingering;
A battalion of plum trees silently blooming;
A bottle of wine
And a fishing line;
Who in this world is my equal?
The oar rips apart the spring water
On which the leaf-like boat is floating.
A tiny hook dangles
At the end of a silk cord.
The islet is covered with blossoms
And my jug is full of wine.
Upon these thousand acres of waves there is freedom.
