The Scattering Dreams
Melodious voices of the blowing lute,
Resound at the calm hour of midnight,
Vibrating echoes return many folds,
And sway nodding the bushes and trees,
The valley seems wearing the sheet of love.
I know the meeting shall not take place,
For your feet sap perfumed colour of Hina 1,
Unlucky will be the tomorrow morn.
We shall mourn on the scattering dreams,
And uniting hearts will break asunder.