leakage comes slowly and quietly
to anyow Winter to withdraw
slowly and quietly.
The color of the portion afternoon
is tinged with nostalgia.
The fantastic war flower
has left her footprints-
countless petals of separation and death
in white and violet.
Very tenderly, the wound opens itself in the depths of my heart.
Its color is the color of blood,
its nature the nature of separation.
The beauty of Spring blocks my way.
How could I find another path up the mountain?
I suffer so. My soul is frozen.
My heart vibrates like the fragile trace of a lute
left out in a stormy night.
Yes, it is in truth there. Spring has really come.
But the mourning is heard
clearly, un fogakably,
in the wonderful sounds of the birds.
The morning mist is already born.
The breeze of Spring in its song
expresses both my bash and my despair.
The cosmos is so indifferent. Why?
To the harbor, I came alone,
and now I leave alone.
There are so many paths leading to the homeland.
They all talk to me in silence. I invoke the Absolute.
Spring has come
to every loge of the ten directions.
Its, alas, is only the song
of departure.
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