The hibiscus grows lushly on the grave mounds,
It shines with scintillating brilliance;
But when the bright sun plummets into the forest,
Its petals flutter forlornly by the roadside.

The cricket chirrups by my windowsill,
The cicada buzzes amidst the brambles;
Ephemerids' play lasts only three mornings,
Then they die in a teeming heap of pretty wings.

For whom do they put on all their finery?
It is just self-preening as they drift with the time;
Ah! How very short is life's alloted span!
Still, impassioned, each being pours forth all of its energy.