* * *

I’ve lived to see desire vanish,
With hope I’ve slowly come to part,
And I am left with only anguish,
The fruit of emptiness at heart.

Under the storms of merciless fate,
My worn and withered garland lies —
In sadness, lonesome, I await:
How far away is my demise?

Thus, conquered by a tardy frost,
Through gale’s whistling and shimmer,
Late, on a naked limb exposed
A lonesome leaf is left to quiver!...