In vain I gather up these stars from the ground,
Yet on the branches I see no flowers.
Sad — a solitary old man,
Desolate — a home without children
Better the duck that sinks in the water,
Better the crow that gathers twigs for nesting.
Duckling in the waves, breaks through them, still flies,
Fledglings in the wind, ruffled, boasting to one another
But blossoms and baby will live no more,
I sigh in vain, facing these creatures.