As loathsome slug-like labour stalls
And metamorphoses imperceptibly
But sure as dust on unpolished surfaces,
Into the shimmering damselfly of leisure,
We breathe, untrammelled from our tasks
Inhaling succulent, refreshing scents
Of freedom’s nectar-brimming buds
That hang, luscious inflorescences
Upon the vines of respite and repose.
We sip, to quaff the soul-reviving juice
And then, inebriated by its potent punch,
Dance to a new tune, still as insistent
As any deadline we have failed to meet.
The leech of work consumes no more
Our energy. Regenerated, we revive
And take our leave of tiresome toil
To taste the tang of idle indolence
Or grasp the zest of recreation’s possibilities
That savour sweet of liberty and life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem