Whenever the turning of fate made us smile like a blooming flower, we remained constantly weeping and lamenting just like the dew.
The poet paints a poignant picture of a rose blooming in the morning mist—seemingly smiling at the world, yet weighed down by tears of cold dew. He suggests that even when destiny grants him a fleeting reason to smile, his sorrow never truly parts from him. Much like the dew-drenched flower, every moment of his visible joy is inextricably bound to an ocean of quiet, unceasing tears.
Interpretation note: meanings and explanations may be AI-assisted and should not replace a primary text or scholarly edition. See the editorial policy.
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