The Dragonfly

The dragonfly, it seems, wishes to be my companion.
Even when October comes, it still hovers close by my side.
On a late autumn morning, cloaked in white frost,
clinging to a withered blade of grass until its life is spent,
the dragonfly loves the fields, loves the sunlight.

As swallows line up in long ranks,
packing their final bundles for a faraway journey,
news may come from the city of someone’s suicide,
yet the dragonfly listens half-heartedly, caring little.
Beside the fisherman, beside the farmer gathering beans,
following the way of life of distant ancestors,
the dragonfly flits about, plays with innocence.
And then, from a withered blade of grass,
it departs the world as lightly as taking flight—
on a morning when leaves and blossoms alike have faded.