It has dried up and lost its luster and fragrance.
At this moment, in my opinion,
Full of strange fantasies:
It, where is it? What time? Which spring?
Is it picked by a familiar hand or by a strange hand?
Why is it in this book?
To commemorate this warm meeting,
Or for destiny takes a hand's parting,
Or to commemorate the lonely walk,
In the secluded place of the field, in the shade of the forest?
He's alive. Is she alive?
Where are they now?
Maybe they have withered?
Like this nameless flower.