What fanatics¹ invent

    In this blind bitter town，

    Fantasy or incident

    Not worth thinking of，

    Put her in a rage.

    I had forgiven enough

    That had forgiven old age.

    All lives that has lived；

    So much is certain；

    Old sages² were not deceived：

    Somewhere beyond the curtain

    Of distorting days

    Lives that lonely thing

    That shone before these eyes

    Targeted， trod like Spring.