The third month, and the peach blossoms
they float on the waves of the river.
The stream recovers its old footprints,
and at dawn it floods the limits of the beach.
The emerald green shimmers before the gate of branches,
while I repair my rigging
And I drop a scented bait
I tie the bamboo tubes to water the garden.
The birds that come flying are already legion
and in noisy hubbub they dispute the bathroom.”