Our death is needed by the boundless nature all around
and is craved by the purple mouths of flowers.
If Spring were again to come, it will again leave us,
and then we shall not even be shadows of other shadows.
Our death is awaited by the bright sunlight.
To experience another such triumphant dusk,
and then to leave those April evenings,
for the distant kingdoms of the dark.
Only our lines may stay behind us,
ten solitary lines just to remain, like
pigeons scattered by castaways at luck,
but when the message comes it is already late.