Even though they are bent and stand at the edge of the wind
Things that stand of their own volition are beautiful for just that reason.
A reed doesn't block the wind.
When my road reaches the sorrow of the outer edges
Which is chafed and broken by someone's sleeve
A winter reed doesn't stand as a flower.
When meeting rays of light even in dust a reed would melt its own rays
And transmit the yellow-green forces of uprising into the roots of the winter reed,
Even though it stands in an icy snow pit,
A reed doesn't break a reed.