Blowball

 

Blowball

I wish if I were blowball, light and free,

Drifting through the vernal meadows

Up among the clouds, I'd soar

As a small Canary, I'd sing

Though all this is but a dream,

I see and keep,

Wishing one day I touch and attain.

But what should a bare, withered tree now do?

At the same place, she rooted.

In her bark a hole, a single eye; to behold the world.

Her pendulous branches are heavy with sadness,

Wailing for the loss of the scented buds of her own.

They die before they grow up,

Before I see,

Before I touch,

Within me—

A grave of bashful buds parched lie.

Tons of tears I spilled,

Over their remains.