He who searched and searched but never found his treasure lost, grew hopeless, yet he searches still at any cost!
Such is this seeking, today so meager, so weak; thus to that land of error I go begging, desire-dampened hope rises, trembling.
How does rain-flooded tenderness dry away, where does childhood's affection hide and stay?
The despair that kills the soul, feverish hope, thin and frail; thirsting, he runs after mirages wild, what he has lost, still cannot find.
Neglect itself is suicide—patience diseased, in memory's drought, thunder's cry unleashed.
There all work ends, here anguish never bends; that heart echoes nothing it receives, dewdrops offered to stone that never grieves.
Why in poetry's spring the cuckoo's call? Alas, the south wind's creation, hope-perfumed all!
I will not go near her, will not touch her form anymore; this song-drunk breeze plays with my heart, reaches not where love stands apart.
She who was, sleeps deep in memory's fold, a living tomb—I weep for reasons untold.
Life as it was—has died, only death stays awake by my side; if I beseech it, will life be given? Vain is this search for what I've lost, unforgiven.