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.   There
is no end of things in the heart.  Original poem by Chinese poet
Li Po, traslated by Ezra Pound (1915).