For the third time I see a flower blossoming in my garden
For the third time, I’m not able to pick it at the right time
The flower withers and soon will be forgotten
Painful, how painful to see beauty while unable to climb
Unable to reach for it, as it evaporates into thin air.
But mourn not for the flower that withers
For if you had picked it at the right time,
It would only last a few days before turning rotten
And like the other three, would soon be forgotten.