4

Whether or not it moves you, At least listen to my complaint— It is not redress this free spirit seeks.

This handful of dust, This fiercely blowing wind, And these vast, limitless heavens— Is the delight You take in creation A blessing or some wanton joke?

The tent of the rose could not withstand The wind blowing through the garden: Is this the spring season, And this the auspicious wind?

I am at fault, and in a foreign land, But the angels never could make habitable That wasteland of yours.

That stark wilderness, That insubstantial world of Yours Gratefully remembers my love of hardship.

An adventurous spirit is ill at ease In a garden where no hunter lies in ambush.

The station of love is beyond the reach of Your angels, Only those of dauntless courage are up to it.