I went to a foreign street on a cold winter afternoon.
The snow threw itself on the dry treetops;
The houses on the roadsides lay silent like graves;
Pale street lamps stood in a stupor, exhausted!

I walked through a park, the wind in my heart,
A stern statue proudly stood in the winter scene,
As if feeling sorry for those who sought fortune and fame,
As if feeling sorry for those who suffered in this fleeting dream.

That afternoon, I too wanted to be a statue,
Standing in the open space watching the buzzing scenes
A strange sadness overcame my sorrowful heart:
The compassion I felt, for me or for the multitude?