But these feelings feel like spring
The old man mutters to himself
On a flagstone in a burned-out field
That is what one particular man and his fate muttered
As he wrapped his arms around his lonesome knees
No wife, no home, no neighbors
No honor, no hope, no profession, no hometown to return to
Wrapped in a poor man's rags, a lonesome tale that has already been told
The old man mutters like an echo reverberating from the far side of the valley
That was where he once had a spirited wife, a kind family, familiar habits and neighbors
His humble bit of happiness was located there
On the flagstones in a burned out field
He hears the voices of sickly, poor children lift in song
Over the shoulders of twisted, frightened, war-damaged buildings which stand against a mercury sky
Beyond the geometric canals that disappear into the twilight rain—
Their voices are thin and cold yet are city lights just beginning to twinkle with joy
Ah, but what do those rose-colored eyes starting to sparkle in the distance
Have to do with me now?
This day of mine is interrupted, cut off by the mountain ridge which sinks, dark, into the distant sky
It ends in emptiness blending into dusk and fading away
These feelings linger on and on, for what seems like an eternity
Never leaving the shade beneath the willow tree which sways emptily in the wind
These feelings, so placid, so tired and lonely, feel like spring…
The old man mutters to himself, lowering his head
But these feelings . . . These feelings feel like spring
The field of grass which had grown without restraint
Is now withered, wilted, and completely dead
While the water in the canal nearby putrefies, heavy and stagnant
A flock of sparrows flies from the cracks in the collapsing brick wall
It is an evening when, one at a time, each tiny bird in town
Flaps its weak wings and flies away like a whimsical memory
In the wet winter rain which falls like mist
But these feelings . . . These feelings bring the man a memory
Of a hazily shrouded, distant day in spring when the cherries once bloomed
From the vague internal landscape where low light illuminates
His emotions like locusts starving upon the sands of a distant desert
The old man mutters to himself with no one to listen
But these feelings . . . These feelings feel like spring

Translation: 2010, Jeffrey Angles