our children will not remember a place
where the wind does not sleep at night like this,
at ease in the arms of trees.
they will know no waters
more lovely than these
where we, in our exile, weep.

though we are lovely,
we suffer from such loneliness,
the way even these moonlit waters would suffer
if only the blind stars looked on
night after night after night.

who could bear for long
the weight of such beauty as this?