No help! Though I have dazed my mind with musing.
Whoso reach middle-age, the white hairs hasten upon them.
From of yore beauty’s roses were short-lived; truly fate is inflexible.
Withal, if toys of rouge and powder grow too passionate then the womb of ruin is pregnant.
I ponder how in this earthly world we can escape from the sea of bitterness.
In a past life we should have reformed our nature; so perchance we might the sooner be rid of disastrous partings.
Certes in my past life I did not reform, therefore I am so long sunk in perdition.
Ah! ‘tis hard to sever the bond of love.
The lover goes, but the root of love remains.
I must not look look backwards, but must ask Tathagata my question.