I know you'll leave me one fine day.  
You're sick of me, is what you'll say;  
dumb and numb, I'll send you on your way.

Ahead of you I'll scatter showers  
great armfuls of azalea flowers  
from Yongbyon mountains' springtime bowers.

And as you go, each step you make  
lightly on the flowers that break  
will echo as the leave you take.

I know you'll leave me one fine day.  
You're sick of me, is what you'll say;  
but I'll not weep then, come what may.