In the small open mouth of the bird, spring was seen.
Last spring, before lunch, I was going down to the city. Standing on the half slope, people can see the beautiful scenery of the earth.
The damp soil exudes the breath of spring. I just drilled out of a fir forest and stopped quietly beside a bush. A bird perched on the thorny branches of the bush, with its small mouth open like a pair of scissors for cutting clothes. It seems that this delicate little thing is practicing singing hard on the branches. The surroundings are so beautiful, intoxicating, and refreshing. Everywhere you can feel and hear a soft and cheerful longing, a joy and an unfettered joy. In the small open mouth of the bird, I saw spring.
The bell for noon came from down the mountain. I walked a few steps forward and saw the sweet, lovely, and sacred spring in a completely different figure. A poor old woman who has been tortured by years sits on a low wall, silently, seeming to be immersed in long-lasting memories. The air is so soft and the sun is so warm. The old mother sat there, bathed in sunshine.
”Spring is here again”, this song echoed in all directions and corners.
