Here the only anguish is the bedraggled vetch lying strangled in weeds, the customary sorrows of the wild persimmons, the whispered complaints of the stately willow trees disentangling their fine lank hair,
and what is past.
I find you here, one of many things lost, that, if we do not recover, will undoubtedly vanish forever ... now only this unfortunate stone, this pale, disintegrate mass, this destiny, this unexpected shiver,