白い風

The wind is a frivolous sort,
 it whispers gently in the pretty flower buds that it sieves through,
   it strokes the dark water surface of the icy-cold lakes,
  it takes itself to wherever it fancies;

でも最後の最後に、
  as the wind knows and as I know,
   it flutters alone in the white sails,
 the white of detachment from this world
       its white of its freedom