I have thanked the trees that have made my
		life fruitful,
    but have failed to remember the grass
	that has ever kept it green.

Your calumny against the great is impious,
	it hurts yourself;
    against the small it is mean,
	    for it hurts the victim.

The cloud gives all its gold
	to the departing sun
    and greets the rising moon
	    with only a pale smile.

As a river in the sea,
    work finds its fulfilment
	in the depth of leisure.

The fire of pain traces for my soul
    a luminous path across her sorrow.


The mountain remains unmoved
    at its seeming defeat by the mist.