Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect. there are lumps in it.

I heard a sudden cry of pain !
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where...
Little one ! Oh, little one !
I am searching everywhere.

The thunder of seas can be heard from afar,
Their radiance dumbfounds and awes.
No time has their water for respite and calm,
Forever at war its shores.


But a brook never rustles its reeds;
In the shade
One must freeze to become quite aware
Of its ripple and lisp among pebbles and roots...
One must bend down to notice it there.


Yet the brook-water, too, doesn't like to be still,
But untiringly sings night and day;
He who finds it kneels down, puts his lips to the brink
And for long cannot tear them away.


He will go there again for a new rendezvous
In the cool of the brooklet to stand.
Yet its language so lucid, its music so pure,
Not everyone can understand.