The Translation of Weeping

At this moment my exhaustion has pressed its back against the wall.
Frozen silence has stolen sleep from the statistics of my eyes' mistakes.
In the arrangement of errors, my beloved dreams are busy dimming their lights.
My world is now free from the daily diary of being cheated.
Today sorrow is only a chestful of emptiness.

Avoiding me, processions of wild winds revel in the joy of scattering 
a skyful of blue clasped in their fists.
Beating their heads to death, those countless careless melodies called emotion.
How many flowers have fallen in the wrong season.
On the dust-covered diary pages, the stalled ballpoint pen 
now suffers only from word-confusion.

Love is lost.
The goddess of the home burns her own house down.
All around withers in the dim, tarnished light of gray.

What sorrowful tune in the rain's song!
How much happiness has returned on the last train!
Now only the wailing of the living dead!

Lately, the very meaning of this life is dwelling 
in sorrow's endless prison.
Once again, I have pressed my back against the wall, 
I and my exhaustion.