Painting the Spring Breeze

The spring breeze stirs up sorrow, but does not blow it away. Blossoms open and fall, all turning to dust; a fragrant soul circles in vain among the trees of the misty outskirts. Death returns to life, but love does not fade; life returns to death, and resentment has long since withered. Year after year, I scatter tears before the wind, and ask the flowers: do you know when you bloom?