In the cool winter breeze where waters flow,
My heart is still; the tide is low.
My soul sways with the dying flowers, oh

I long to escape in a dreamy cloud; perchance
There remains a faint glimmer of chance,
For in the wind whistles the natives’ carefree chants.

The ephemeral steps that I retraced,
The carvings in the willow that I traced
Mean nothing in this fast-paced life that we have raced.

My idle mind wanders in despair,
For Solitude winks mockingly at the pair
Of stationary willows whose crinkly leaves blow in the air.

No more secrets shall I disclose;
My weary brain is an elevator door that will not close.
The waters flow, the wind blows, through the highs and lows.