All the waits are only for golden-line chrysanthemum.
Smilingly and slowly blooms in cold nights.
Like fallen leaves in forest lightly comes down.
The greeting is as beautiful as the sound of water, only that it also has slightly resentful anger just like the wind,
Let people from the path that is bitten by ferns,
Are surprised to see the golden yellow moon light. And the brush woods left by woodcutters at dusk,
Coldly stagnates weathered sorrow.
When walking by, always lowers head and hair. Deliberate intention,
Is not able to pretend. In the creek water outside the forest,
Few drops of tear that closely clamber leaves of grass are now collapsing in the wind.
You ask me about duckweed’s logic, Ah, that is it.
Dew drops to the land and lightly signs.
And Chrysanthemum, especially the golden-line chrysanthemum is enduring to wait.
After the cold winter, the spring will come. I will wait all my life for your smile.