Sorrow comes, sooner or later.
There is a particular beauty in sadness. A lugubrious perfection in death. Glory in pain. Before long, every being on this earth learns of the utter emptiness life can bring. And so the translators must preserve this scarring beauty as well.
Out of blood come black paintings.
From tears spring the elegy.
Wails become fugues.
To do anything else would be to lie.