The song
that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.
I have spent
my days in stringing and in unstringing my
instrument.
The time has
not come true, the words have not been rightly set;
only there
is the agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom
has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.
I have not
seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I
have heard
his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.
The livelong
day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor;
but the lamp
has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.
I live in the hope of meeting
with him; but this meeting is not yet.
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