When I confront the future, a black mass, a blank expanse, Ignorant which road to choose, Wavering, confused, Then he, she, dimly emerge Seeming to be there And not there –

We stand on a lofty mountain peak, Transforming ourselves into the boundless panorama, Into the broad plain opening before us, Into the footpaths that crisscross the plain. What paths, what waterways are not connected? What winds and clouds do not echo one another? The cities and landscapes that we have traveled All have merged into our lives. We are blown in the wind, we are borne on the water, We are the footpaths that crisscross the plain, The lives of travelers on the paths.

When this place is freed and you return, Reclaim his broken body from this earth And with a cry of victory Raise his soul on high.

A hundred turns, a thousand whirls, and not one word for you. Water feels sorrow, has griefs of its own; it will keep you company.

From a stretch of formless, overflowing water The drawer of water fills his oval vase, And a mass of water takes definite shape. Look! The banner-vane is fluttering in the autumn wind; It holds fast what cannot be held fast. Let something of the far-off light, the distant dark, The glory and the withering of distant grass and trees, And a thought that launches itself toward infinity – Let something of these be captured in this way. Empty, we have listened to the sound of a whole night's wind, In vain watched a day's grass turn yellow, a day's trees red. How shall we focus and hold our thoughts? May these poems, like banner-vanes in the wind, Hold something of what cannot be held.

But you no longer exist! Yet your memory sets me trembling, And every evening at dusk I await you in vain

Mud that clings to his heels and to his heart – And he wonders when a loving hand will brush them clean.