I give you a bouquet of roses
Blossomed on the grave.
Please praise her pure fragrance,
Just forget the buried grief. Gathered up early in the morning,
With dew drops still sparkling.
Like transparent crystalline tears,
They are scattering gleams, trembling. We don't know who the roses planted,
Loved, watered, and cultivated.
Maybe it was a white haired mother?
Or a heart broken sister? The flowers are mild and beautiful,
With buds opening to the full.
Who knows their secret dreams,
And the memories, at all?