I woke and found his letter with the morning.  
I do not know what it says, for I cannot read.
 
I shall leave the wise man alone with his books, I shall not trouble him, for who knows if he can read what the letter says.
 
Let me hold it to my forehead and press it to my heart.
 
When the night grows still and stars come out one by one I will spread it on my lap and stay silent.
 
The leaves will read it aloud to me, the rushing stream will chant it, and the seven wise stars will sing it to me from the sky.
 
I cannot find what I seek, I cannot understand what I would learn; but this unread letter has my burdens and turned my thoughts into songs.