A stern figure
blocked my way,
said, 'Not this path.'
I went back
to my old rounds,
pick and shovel in the fields
another year.
The hopeless, invisible
burden remained on my shoulders.
I stole away again
and returned to the path.
Again the stern figure.
Again I went back
and picked up my tools.
Another year of dim
purgatory, a gray time
with no prospect of sun.
Again I took leave
and walked to the path.
The stern figure
admonished yet again,
but my feet
would not go back
to the fields of the hopeless,
and I kept walking
along the unknown path.
Max maybe we should all ignore the stern visitors. The unknown has to be better than the hopeless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It seems like we prefer to repeat our mistakes instead of trying something new. It takes real guts to explore the unknown, or, as you point out, maybe just no longer hoping for something better.