When we run forward at full speed, our eyes keep gazing in front of us, and we see nothing on either side of us.
If things did not move on and vanish, we should see no beauty anywhere.
If youth had only the heat of movement, it would get parched and withered. But there is ever the hidden tear, which keeps it fresh.
The cry of the world is not only "I have," but also "I give." In the first dawning light of creation, "I have" was wedded to "I give." If this bond of union were to snap, then everything would go to ruin.
I don't know where that blind Minstrel has landed us at last.
It seems as though these stars in the sky above us are the gazing of countless eyes we met in all forgotten ages. It seems as if, through the flowers, there came the whisper of those we have forgotten, saying Remember us.
Our hearts will break if we do not sing.
(They sing.)
Did you leave behind you your love, my heart, and miss peace through all your days?
And is the path you followed lost and forgotten, making your return hopeless?
I go roaming listening to brooks' babble, to the rustle of leaves.
And it seems to me that I shall find the way, that reaches the land of lost love beyond the evening stars.
What a strange tune is this, that comes out of the music of Spring.