Blossom drifts — it veils the trees,
like silent snow at break of day;
the scent of spring rides gentle breeze,
while trembling sun in mist holds sway.

Petals fall — as though from skies
some sorrow softly to earth is cast;
in each one trembles, quiet and wise,
a distant longing, blue and vast.

The meadow sways — the wind declares:
the birds depart for lands unknown;
shadows dance as if in prayers,
across mute earth and river-stone.

Silence tolls on waters clear,
as though the past in waves still lies;
the heart preserves a memory dear
that in the twilight slowly dies.

Through the branches winds speak far,
owls pass like dreams without a sound;
and spring writes where the still fields are its final verse on fading ground.

Blossom falls — all fades away,
like tears the chest can no longer hold;
spring departs — yet still will stay
its quiet light within the soul.