Last year is withered
Her twelve leaves she shed
moon after moon anew.
This morning dew
Quenches the thirst of the budding fern,
a new year blooming.
She’s just sprouted her first leaf,
the leaf is a herb of relief
for the making of a potion,
a potion for the healing of the nation.
Let the deaf
lend an ear
from the corn,
to hear
the hymn of the harvest that is soon begun.
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