On my gravestone,
there is no word,
but a heart with a pair of wings.
When all other parts die,
those shall remain.
The wind will flap those wings
and the stream will bubble underground;
The sunset will cast its song
and the lake will unfold its poem.
My grave will open its sliding tunnel,
for a butterfly will flutter to the moon,
when lavenders swing in evening primroses,
a wish star will land in your dream.
I will sit demure
upon a blooming bay tree,
scattering fragrant petals
as the spring rain.
当我死去
在我的墓碑，
没有碑文，
