1. I say to a friend complaining of sadness
I see my roses through his sight withered

2. You complained of grit in your eye that caused pain
As if you had looked upon loss

3. To a tomorrow that nearly comes back to us
With a spear at dusk or a pickaxe

4. I lost you, oh loss, so all living
Is with your nearness rough fabrics, coarse

5. Sniffling from the cold and in you is ice
A freezing February tells of hail