What once sprung from the earth sinks back into the earth.

From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers.

I return to the newborn world, and the soft-soil fields, What their first birthing lifted to the shores Of light, and trusted to the wayward winds. First the Earth gave the shimmer of greenery And grasses to deck the hills; then over the meadows The flowering fields are bright with the color of springtime, And for all the trees that shoot into the air.

From the midst of the very fountain of pleasure, something of bitterness arises to vex us in the flower of enjoyment.

Continual dropping wears away a stone.

You may complete as many generations as you please during your life; none the less will that everlasting death await you.

To ask for power is forcing uphill a stone which after all rolls back again from the summit and seeks in headlong haste the levels of the plain.