It should be easy to go carefree into the midst of things;
But somehow the habit of worrying takes over command,
And all one can do is to watch it happen once more,
The killing of impulse by routine, the eddying of thought,
The resignation to utterly trivial things,
The shredding of our sense of coherence.
What does it matter in the short run or the long run?
What can be simply said is not always asking to be said.
There is a gap between words, any words; impulses
Ordinarily splutter, sputter, connections are implicit,
But seldom come in molecular chains, ready linked.
One must find connections by a sense of links.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem