There’s no trace of spring left
The tree leaf has fallen on the grass
The orchard trees wear the robe of divestiture
The autumn wind in the grass has the plane tree’s permission.
Golden is the flow at their feet from every side
The orchard trees hope for the river’s favor.
Don’t wait on the grass’ theatrical stage. Let it sway with the light breeze
The sapling is free of leaf and fruit.
Baki, the leaf is distraught in the grass
It resembles a complaint against the wind.