Rambling through the old-summer meadow,
Did you hear whispering of cane?
Rustling in a cold-water shadow,
But it begs for dreadful hurricane.
Slim and thin, sly friend of swallow,
Hardly having any force or strain,
Rusted much by autumn yellow,
Would you mind for mortal hurricane?
Even look whisk flowers like weeds,
Overwhelmed just with mature grains,
Other ones sprout out of the seeds
Let break out mighty hurricanes!