And once again we met, later, at the South bridge head.
And then the crowd broke up -and you went north to San palace.
And if you ask me how I regret that parting?
It is like the flowers falling at spring’s end,
confused, whirled in a tangle.
What is the use of talking! And there is no end of talking-
There is no end of things in the heart.
Original poem by Chinese poet Li Po, traslated by Ezra Pound (1915).
