All these imagesfrom a world of long ago—of what good are they?Pine winds, come—please blow awaythese unforgotten dreams.
How cruel the voicethat bars me from travelingthe way of dreams.Not a man, but still a gate guardis that wind in the reeds.
Even in one’s sleep,it is dreams of this world one sees,and of no other;just as there is no dawning herethat brings true awakening.