Poor frail leaf
far from your own branch,
where are you flying? - The wind
tore me from the beech that bore me.
Whirling, in flight, it takes me
from the forest to the plain,
from the valley to the mountain.
I myself journey
forever: ignoring all the rest.
I go where all things go,
where, of nature, goes
the flower of the rose,
and the flower of the laurel.