It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.

A loss, but who still mourns the breath of one woman, or laments one wife? Though my heart never can forget, how, for one look, she gave up her life.

Let whoever wants to, relax in the south, And bask in the garden of paradise. Here is the essence of north—and it's autumn I've chosen as this year's friend.

As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.

Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.

This Cruel Age has deflected me.

Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again. Unless ... Summer's ardent rustling is like a festival outside my window.