How happy to enter the capital. When we reached the house and went through the gate, the moon was bright, and we could see everything clearly. It was broken down and ruined beyond words, worse than we had heard. The heart of the person we had left in charge of the house had gone to ruin as well. There was a fence between our houses, but they were almost like one house, so he had offered to look after it himself. Even so, we had sent him gifts of thanks at every opportunity. Tonight I would not let anyone say loudly, "Look what's become of it." I think him very heartless, but I mean to thank him all the same.
Now, there was a place sunk like a pond, where water had collected. By it there had been a pine. In five or six years it was as if a thousand had passed: part of it was gone. Young pines that had sprung up were mixed among the rest. Everything had gone to ruin, and people said, "Ah."
There was nothing we did not remember, and among all our longings, how sad it was that the girl born in this house had not come back with us. The others who had come back with us had children gathering around and making a great noise. In the midst of this, unable to bear the sorrow, one quietly exchanged poems with someone who understood:
"The child born here has not come home, and how sad to see young pines growing at our house."
So it was said. Yet still it was not enough, and another poem followed:
"If the one who died had lived long like the thousand-year pine, and I could have watched her always, there would have been no sad parting far away."
There are many things hard to forget and much to regret, but I cannot write them all. In any case, let me tear this up soon.