Wind returns to this small court
as lichens turn green.
Her eyes and willow leaves
make a sequence in spring.
Leaning against the balustrade
she remains long in silence.
The new moon and the crackers
are tediously the same as the past.
The feast and the music have not yet ceased.
In the pond, ice is beginning to melt.
In the bright candlelight and the faint scent,
and deeply hidden in the painted room,
My temples, overladen with thoughts,
are white like frost.
