Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
Not one can manage a single sound though the
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.
But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.
Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours,
little sunshine, a little rain.
Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her
one boot to another -- why don't you get going?
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under
And to tell the truth I don't want to let go
of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money;