■ 🕑 2. To my teacher
   An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill,
   Overrun with rank weeks growing unchecked year after year;
   There is no one left to tend the tomb,
   And only an occasional woodcutter passes by.
   Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair,
   Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River.
   One morning I set off on my solitary journey
   And the years passed between us in silence.
   Now I have returned to find him at rest here;
   How can I honor his departed spirit?
   I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone
   And offer a silent prayer.
   The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill
   And I'm enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines.
   I try to pull myself away but cannot;
   A flood of tears soaks my sleeves.