They say a man is like a funeral ram which must take whatever beating comes to it without opening its mouth; only the silent tremor of pain down its body tells of its suffering.

You grieve for those beyond grief and you speak words of insight; but learned men do not grieve for the dead or the living.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

What piercing cold I feel! My dead wife's comb, in our bedroom, under my heel... .

My eyes have only one job: to cry.

My kinsmen may still be grieving, While others have started singing. I am dead and gone-what more is there to say? My body is buried in the mountains.

Like a child in its cradle I would that very gentle arms Might rock my grieving spirit And be as it were a kindly shelter For my heart-a traveler lost On a remote deserted road.

Formerly, people used to grieve over the departed, but in our days they grieve over the survivors.