Azaleas
When you leave,
weary of me,
I'll bid you silent farewell.
An armful of azaleas
culled from the hill
I'll strew over your path.
Step after step,
on the flowers
Tread lightly, as you walk.
When you leave,
weary of me,
I'll not shed a drop of tear.
Source: http://myhome.naver.com/woomi9/poem/ksw310.htm |