My song, I have
Bequeathed to your voice
Will this only live
As a token of love,
And will the rest perish?
The heart-breaking anguish
That in the depth of my heart lies buried,
Have you ever
Discerned the song?
Perhaps, I had only sung
And seldom talked.
Were my songs mere dalliance?
And a vain bewilderment?
When my heart was swept
By the tide,
Its murmurs echoed far and wide.
Sitting on the shore,
you in vain only listened
To the strain.
And my words never pierced
Through you heart:
Merely as earrings they danced.
Oh, what a pity!
The moon that raises the tide
Never hears
That eternal murmur
On the sea side.
Alas, the Been fails
To hear the cadences
That behind the tune wails.
The fragrance of the
Bouquet of my songs
Never touched your heart.
String of words that
Rang out of my bosom,
Became a noose in your throat.
Forget, oh dear,
Why adore the flowers
That in the morning wither.
I know of your sojourn
At early dawn,
Enticed by the fragrance
Of the roses new-born,
Why should she care
For the thorny creeper
That bled to blossom,
And the tear-drops on the branches
That bloomed into flower.
While the flowers of union
You sought,
You played with the agony
Of my heart.
Oh forget my songs.
Of what use are they in this
Fleeting intimacy?
I am only a garland
On your neck.
Your heart’s contumacy.
Maybe some day
You will say,
Being near the neck
I was closer to the heart.
