Above my head a new day doesn't clear up, it brings the old clouds.
And each new day here is a small eternity.
It's lingering at my door, like a poor wife, to walk off, -
or it is, as if it were rising from my dreams, as though it were a
ghost.
It might not have anything to give to me out of its hands of being one
that died away.
I don't have an eye ogling for heaven or earth,
I see but the range of the clouds.
It doesn't dissolve, it doesn't clear up;
the new day brings the old clouds.
Life isn't getting on, not by the span of a hand -
there's only flowing time's stream.
My life! your grand solstice has come.
Like an island, now my heart is - after swaying with the waves - a
sea, so immobile, having embraced a shadow-life.
The wine of the veins, the blood, does not strike a fire as before.
The land's spring time calls the country's grasses and trees to life,
and so my other brothers, -
I, for one, remained leafless, -
but, oh my life! I grant you have a solstice.
Although the eye does search for the east -
it does not do so from the extremes of time's stream.
Its look does not dash as far as for the shelter of a morning,
to the moment a-coming.
It does not believe in the good luck that a wave brings, not in
events of accident.
Away from the squirmings of hope,
and from the shores shimmering of a new day,
it turned itself around facing another stream and another side of east.
For me, time has nothing to give,
not out of its hands of a stranger.
Now my heart only carries on its fate by itself.
The sea of phenomena doesn't wash its banks temptingly.
It claims the silence and hears only that.
If mornings still shine on in it, and the blue in the sky,
this spring, by itself, had but been as what had been that fall.
An island of a deep sea, it is similar to a pearly shell:
if a good pearl is to be created, it will be created so out of its
pain.
Like stocks of semen that live in their dying, it sleeps - and does
not sleep:
it is sipping power from its sleep.
And once being free of pain, it will wake up to a new life -
like a mute flute, it is waiting for its melody.