I filled my bowl with whatever I had,
And gave it you yesterday in twilight,
What shall I bring to you tomorrow?
I really wonder, so confused and worried,
I am like the orange grove tree that
at the end of the flowering summer,
Gazes at the sky with its lifted branches,
Bare of their blossoms and fragrance,
In all my past offerings is there not a
Single flower made fadeless by tears,
Will you remember it and thank me
With your eyes when I come before you,
With empty hands at those leave-taking
Of my summer days and hot hours?