When in favor with Fortune if not in men's eyes,
I sit alone and smile at my secret state.
My austere appearance serves as my soul's disguise,
As I walk through crowds of men who curse their fates,
I look around and see each face adrift in fantastic schemes
And view them with a kind of sympathetic pity.
Their eyes look upon some non-existent shore with a hungry gleam
While mine take in all around me, both pristine and gritty.
And yet in my unnoticed, unremarkable, generic days,
I find my mind at peace, my heart content
No matter how little attention others pay
To the words I write or the ideas they represent.
For this state, free from want or sorrow,
Is not promised forever or even tomorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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