1. To the garden of literature, the breeze of dew,
Greetings of protectors set in motion by the hand of affection,

2. It came like breaths of wind pulling along,
On droplets of dew from the cheek of a rose.

3. The birds chirping joyfully,
Among those outstretched and paired,

4. Calling out merrily and frolicking,
Singing of every proposal,

5. Doves on the branches of trees cooing,
Yet to the intestines they are but entrails.

6. It is but a garden except that its youth,
Incline towards propriety and its abundance is the flower of speech,

7. Nay, it is but a thread whose jewels,
Were not strung by the hands of composers, but the wilderness of the pen,

8. It flows with the conveyance of dreams so it returns them,
The competence of its pillars and its wonders.