When I watch folks of this world and see how widespread
It is for those, that pile up treasure and put on fat, to chafe
At the bit and grasp for more, the way they hunger for a safe
As broad as the ocean, and so deep, that it'd never touch the seabed,
I say to myself: ah, you herd of blind fools, bank away, bank,
Ruining your days with anxieties, lose night after night of sleep,
Do shady deals and diddle: then what? Old Granpa Time'll creep
In with his scythe, and slice away at your bundle of plans, hank after hank.
Death's hidden away, and hunkers inside the clock-tower;
And no one can say: Tomorrow, once more I'll
Still hear midday ring out like today, at this very same hour.
What's the poor pilgrim do when he takes on a rough and tough
Journey, knowing he'll travel but for a little while?
He packs a crust or two of bread, and that's enough.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem