Pink blossoms of cherry have come
under the vivid sun of spring,
whose gentle rays fall eagerly
to kiss new volery of wings.

But the green bosom of earth is void,
and vista still like a painting,
though walt limbs wallop in parks,
empty vessels are screaming.

The winds from the shore is clean,
So, waning ice caps are unseen.

Leaves of the oak tree have shed,
among thick fog in gelid dark,
when breezes are blowing eagerly from poles,
freezing lucid streams and yellow barks.

All hard vessels are filled and warm,
yet buzzing like a swarm of bees
as humans chide their own spirits,
for winter nights are gift of their deeds.

Our conscience has big owl's eyes,
only apt for crimson skies.