Nothing remains intact in store;
everything gathers, melts
And drop down bore.
As afternoon appears, I expand myself;
I ponder of being desolate,
of touching your secrets;
how long I’ll remain lonely
with composing poetry!
The tendency of life grows
in contact of gregariousness. Reaching stillness mood,
I remain motionless pondering:
what role has the setting moon left
alone in the vast place of a wood?