Over old trees wreathed with rotten vines fly evening crows. Under a small bridge near a cottage a stream flows. On ancient road in the west wind a lean horse goes. Westward declines the sun. Far, far from home is the heartbroken one
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Missing is a breathing pain that exists in every corner of my body. Singing the song you love will hurt. Looking at your letters will hurt. Even silence hurts. Regret is a breathing pain, flowing through the blood and rolling back and forth. Worrying about not being considerate will hurt. Hating not understanding you will hurt. Wanting to see but unable to see is the most painful.
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Happy happy holiday
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