With rod in hand, to our sleeping place,
Growling for his dues.
Must it be so hopeless—
The way of this world?
ENVOY
Nothing but pain and shame in this world of men,
But I cannot fly away,
Wanting the wings of a bird.
Suffering from old age and prolonged illness, and thinking of his children
So long as lasts the span of life,
We wish for peace and comfort
With no evil and no mourning,
But life is hard and painful.
As the common saying has it,
Bitter salt is poured into the smarting wound,
Or the burdened horse is packed with an upper load,
Illness shakes my old body with pain.
All day long I breathe in grief
And sigh throughout the night.
For long years my illness lingers,
I grieve and groan month after month,
And though I would rather die,
I cannot, and leave my children
Noisy like the flies of May.
Whenever I watch them
My heart burns within.
And tossed this way and that,
I weep aloud.
