My song-bird is tired and deep in slumber
The evening’s fallen flowers have a piteous look.
The morning flowers sprang while it sang until silenced by a
hunter’s arrow,
The evening-queen loosens her hair and wails in the forest’s lap.
Alas the shrub will carry no promise of flowering from tomorrow,
Someone’s sigh heaves among leaves.
The song-bird has flown, empty is the cage
My voice is no longer so fluent of speech
No one will approach this mirage-light even after getting lost.
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