No luck today on my mendicant rounds;
From village to village I dragged myself.
At sunset I find myself with miles of mountains
between me and my hut.
The wind tears at my frail body,
And my little bowl looks so forlorn --
Yes this is my chosen path that guides me
Through disappointment and pain, cold and hunger.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
all the harsh life of the beggar..