You are weak and have no means of coming to me; I am in trouble and
can hardly hope to go to you. O singing birds, these are no true good
tidings! And with poetry, I cann only confess my failure as a brother.
What right have I to live and to see people? These worries alone might
wear out months and years! Once there were thirty of us in the two capi-
tals! All alive now? The chances are slender.