sick of it all
driven inward and quiet
and embittered
by all the intrigues
and cross-points
and civilized words and ruthless daily meanderings;
sickened by it
come, perhaps we shall go
like the Chinese literati of ancient times
to the quiet country, to the mountains;
and perhaps there while away the years
in anonymity
in contemplation of the moon and the willow and the bamboo;
and perhaps replace bitterness with the freshness of the air in the valleys
and perhaps dropp all memory of the strife
and the tumultuous thoughts
as the quiet and songs of the valley
permeate the mind;
come, let us
like the Chinese literati of years past,
like the Chinese literati of ancient times
but will the bulldozers let us be;
will today’s gray-suited polished men of the city let us be…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem