A poor man on a tiny plot
Imagines beyond the forest green;
No words of the wise can mend his lot,
He bears the burden as if a dream.
He plants his field and tends for autumn,
Singing a song of the land he sows,
And though he starves he’s never solemn,
Awaiting each morning the cry of crows.
One day he walks along the eastern bay
And spreads his oars beyond the shore;
Floating with the tide, he flits away
Until returning to land once more.
How sweet this densely hidden land
That carries the cries of mountain lions:
The sorrowful wind’s a tethered strand
That sings the song of sirens.
Sparrows love the early dawn,
The ocean loves its rhythmic foam:
It matters not to miss what’s gone:
He thanks the clouds and heads for home.