If I speak of sadness and sorrowful weeping,
lachrymose wandering,
clutching at my heart --
perhaps I refer to the beauty of its reality.

Or loneliness.  Although empty beyond thought,
vacant like the winter, without warmth,
a terrible disease of struggling --
yet is it a real thing, an honest thing.

Such purities burn away
the heavy sackcloth
that hides the face of beauty.