I live in this barren field.
No rocks are to be seen. No trees have lived. There's only a rough track and coarse ground.
I sit there in the pavilion, lamentably.
The wind flew by my face. In this blank state of mind. The world is vast, yet nothing is to be seen. I've only been wandering, to nowhere.
For whom are my woes and grieves?
The world is vast, but where have I been?
The people are many, but who have I met?
The knowledge is abundant, but what have I known?
The feelings are uncontrollable, but what have I felt?
Who shaped these grounds? Who placed the stones? Who has chopped the trees and cliffs? Who took the colors of this world?
Under the blue bricks and between the wooden beams.
“Is there anything for me?”
What have I been? Who have I been?
Only in this world, I have been. On this stone stool, I have sat.
I recalled the false memories. Where are the hanging willows? The blue swallows are chirping. The tall bamboo blew by the wind. The breeze from the flowing river.
Only I have left in this world. I was nothing. I have been missing but to this world. I was forgotten in my own memories. I have been left with a memoir of this world.
I shed tears. I'm nothing. To nowhere I have gone. To no one, I have forgotten. No one to see me cry. No one to hear my woes and complaints. No one to feel my grieves. Only I have been left to myself.
I leaned on the stone table, holding a cup full of tears. But where are those who share the memories?
