No luck today on my mendicant rounds;
From village to village I dragged myself.
At sunset I find myself with miles of mountains
between me and my hut.
The wind tears at my frail body,
And my little bowl looks so forlorn --
Yes this is my chosen path that guides me
Through disappointment and pain, cold and hunger.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem