The days within seem like mercury,
A barometer has been the instrument
To measure my fancy,
For the pressure on my mind is boiling.
The days within my mind are numberless,
Agonies are a contentment of the parade,
The meaningful temperature points out murmur,
Yet the fancy within is the inner happiness.
Always the playing is the paying of money,
A precious work is afoot, with joining and parting,
Like money that grows and grows like feeling,
Internal pleasures combine and motivate me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem