In my heart is the sorrow
Of years like red leaves buried in snow.
The Lonely Grave
Pilgrims will ascend the road in early summer,
Passing my tombstone
Mossy, long forgotten.
Girls will laugh and scatter cherry petals,
Sometimes they will rest in the twisted pine-trees' shade.
If one presses her warm lips to this tablet
The dust of my body will feel a thrill, deep down in the silent earth.
