Kublai sits back on his cushions again, withdrawing into contemplation. The Mongol chronicler comes forward to fulfill his function of chanting the official lament for the dead. We lament the shortness of life. Life at its longest is brief enough. Too brief for the wisdom of joy, too long for the knowledge of sorrow.
Sorrow becomes despair when death comes to the young, untimely.
Oh, that her beauty could live again, that her youth could be born anew. Our Princess was young as Spring, she was beautiful as a bird or flower. Our sobs stifle us, our tears wet the ground, our lamentations sadden the wind from the West. Yet we must bow humbly before the Omnipotent. All Gods are powerless.