A tree the moon, wine and I the moon and I the wine this tree
puppets on strings to the whims of the times.
The bark is rough on my back silk of the garment
is thin such is a whim.
The wit better left to the gnome: really to think because
of the cup in my hand they would think such thoughts.
Tomorrow I will go back or send some one
to draw my bottles for me.
That way a passer by wont see me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem