DEAREST, we are like two flowers Blooming in the garden, A purple aster¹ flower and a red one Standing² alone in a withered³ desolation.

    The garden plants are shattered and seeded, One brittle⁴ leaf scrapes against another, Fiddling⁵ echoes of a rush of petals⁶. Now only you and I nodding together.

    Many were with us； they have all faded. Only we are purple and crimson⁷, Only we in the dew-clear mornings, Smarten into color as the sun rises.

    When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight, And later when my cold roots tighten⁸, I am anxious for morning, I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.

    You or I-and I am a coward. Surely frost should take the crimson. Purple is a finer color,

    Very splendid in isolation⁹.

    So we nod above the broken Stems of flowers almost rotted. Many mornings there cannot be now For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you！