Disheveled

On some grief-stricken afternoon,
your golden sky sheds joy—
such pretense, and you spent a whole life this way!

Yet that chorus of dry leaves keeps playing its pain,
winter's anklets chime when summer arrives!

When the waterfall laughs,
I see tears in its eyes too!
The breeze grows drunk on jasmine's scent,
yet still, it seems,
some ancient death returns—
to the corner of my eye, to the heart you gave me.

In the piteous shadow of disheveled hair—
dark, dark eyes, graying brows,
mist from a death-emptied lake—
seeing all this, how carelessly
each of my souls trembles, catches on thorns,
gathers itself in a moment, then goes numb and still!

At last, night descends.
Or does sorrow come dressed as night?
Distant stars, pretending to fall,
cast their gaze into my bewilderment
and keep saying...
If your wealth reaches the sky,
why does your heart seek the netherworld?
Keep weeping, keep weeping...
Live on, just like this...!