NILING

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away.
And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sign.
Some unseen fingers, like an idle breeze, are playing upon my heart the music of the ripples.
I sit at my window this morning where the world like a passer-by stops for a moment, nods to me and goes.
I cannot tell why this heart languishes in silence.
I hear some rustle of things behind my sadness of heart, but I cannot see them.