If it is our lot to be scattered
By the mere blowing of the winds,
Then I shall want the day we embraced be ended, us set ablaze;
So, as that scarlet colour begins to fade,
With my beloved within me, I long to become ash
With the misery of overbearing emotion
With the misery of repression
If I were to die, would spring lament?
Ah, if I asked, they would surely wither
The cherry blossoms of unrequited love
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