Across the fields wafts the scent of spring blossoms,
Should it wander to the hill behind, impulsively,
I, alone, by the window soft as paint,
Sketch a watercolor in that gentle expanse.

If a plot, a pink tree, should all at once cheer,
Stitching the scene with jubilation,
Returning to the embrace of a handful of soil,
Bursts forth a sunny laugh in the beloved field.

Should sunlight now prance across those fields,
And the hill's gentle slope and clouds above
Manage their elegance so demurely,
It resembles her delicate stitching, a field aglow.

The beautifully embroidered hill,
For whom did it fade away?
I, by chance, in a handful of soil,
Never expected such a delicate touch.

But why do I find myself this way,
Utterly damned?