Thus death or parting separates us each from the other,
Why must we part? Oh, world too sad for me!
"For remembrance of her I wanted to write about her," began a letter from her nurse—but it stopped short with the words, "Ink seems to have frozen up, I cannot write any more."[41]
How shall I gather memories of my sister?
The stream of letters is congealed.
No comfort may be found in icicles.
So I wrote, and the answer was:
Like the comfortless plover of the beach
In the sand printing characters soon to be washed away,
Unable to leave a more enduring trace in this fleeting world.
That nurse went to see the grave and returned sobbing, saying:
I seek her in the field, but she is not there,
Nor is she in the smoke of the cremation.
Where is her last dwelling-place?
How can I find it?
The lady who had been my stepmother heard of this [and wrote]:
When we wander in search of her,
Ignorant of her last dwelling-place,
Standing before the thought
Tears must be our guide.
The person who had sent "The Prince Yearning after the Buried" wrote: