My heart is filled
With many songs
That I think would not
Make good poems

Weakly resisting
Your perfect beauty
Your lips of silk
And eyes of silver

My paltry attempts to please
Effaced by your effortless expression
At your lowest
You are still greater

Knowing my helpless position
I am grateful that you
Decided to care
Even for a moment

I bow my head
My struggles in vain
I surrender to one who is
Better maintained

Cutting out across the plain
A chill wind and a tear
Turning my back on El Paso
Nothing is left for me there

Pretty skies over tree-shielded river
The fading call of birds
Pink swirls surround the crescent moon.

Day transitions to night
A bus tries to improve its self-image
I empty a pail of sweat over the balcony.

Honored companion:
When you return,
let us go down to yon forest,
as our hearts have yearned.
I know a girl of the green
bright balms and flowering hair;
when spring comes to the valley,
she will wait for you there.

As hunter shoots the stag,
so huntress strikes the lad's heart;
leaves crunch beneath their boots,
in crisp handhold they won't part.
Grass drinks the gold dew flood,
orange sun never wants to wane;
but far beyond the verdant wood,
a martial voice calls out your name.

So grasp your sword by hardened hilt,
and with pike upon your shoulder,
live not for the joys of life;
live but to grow older.
Then mount the hills with me,
cast aside your roving bow;
for ours is a life of misery,
and in summer we must go.

Away from crystal spires
Into the heart of the city
I wander

A mangled mess of Clover,
Sitting softly in setting Sun,
Brushes upon its grass-bed,
As Brook starts to run.
Calmly, she calls to Meadow,
Likewise, Meadow to Tree;
Tree converses with Flower,
And Flower embraces Bee.

Dunes of pride are often swept
Away by the winds of humility
Like heavy ornaments on an old tower
Leading ultimately to collapse

Concentration proves unattainable
Without care
For weather or worse
Tirelessly, I prepare my argument.

Somber lie the hills
o'er which my Sally flies.
Darkness clothes the mills,
and creeps by every corner.
Crimson fills the springs,
where once children drank --
like them, I choke
and struggle to speak,
and I sit in the company
of pleasant nature.
I watch bitterly
as the trees grow:
they know nothing of my sorrow,
nor how I have toiled.

Taunting, their gaze peers
down at me from above,
and the crest of every wave,
lit by the dawn.
Oh, if I could be with her:
my pride, my love!
Contently I would
spend my days abroad.
But since she is lost, I fear,
and the cruel wind
kisses me in her stead,
I wish at least to return
to my native land, so dear,
where among those quiet meadows
I would rest my head.