the song that I came to sing
remains unsung to this day.
i have spent my days in stringing
and in unstringing my instrument

the time has not come true,
the words have not been rightly set;
only there is the agony
of wishing in my heart

the blossom has not opened;
only the wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face,
nor have I listened to his voice;
only I have heard his gentle footsteps
from the road before my house

the livelong day has passed
in spreading his seat on the floor;
but the lamp has not been lit
and I cannot ask him into my house

i live in the hope of meeting with him;
but this meeting is not yet.