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.