No evil men can steal the treasure;
'Tis death, death only, sets a measure.
"Ah, what is this fate that smites me ceaselessly? First came the loss of property; then humiliations from my own people, the result of poverty; because of gloom thereat, exile; and now fate prepares for me the loss of a friend. As the proverb says:
In truth, I do not grieve though riches flee;
Some lucky chance will bring them back to me:
'Tis this that hurts me—lacking riches' stay,
The best of friends relax and fall away.
And again:
Fate's artful linkage since my birth
Of evil deeds and deeds of worth
Pursues me on this present earth
Till states of mind that play and sway
And change and range from day to day,
Seem lives that strive and pass away.
Ah, there is only too much wisdom in this:
The body, born, is near its doom;
And riches are the source of gloom;
All meetings end in partings: yes,
The world is all one brittleness.
"Ah, me! Ah, me! The loss of my friend is death to me. What care I even for my own people? As the saying goes:
A foe of woe and pain and fear,
A cup of trust and feelings dear,
A pearl—who made it? Who could blend
Six letters in that name of friend?
